


Risen From The Ashes

by MsCFH



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-07-08 16:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 217,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsCFH/pseuds/MsCFH
Summary: The world thinks that Margaery Tyrell died; burned to ashes when the Sept of Baelor went up in flames.But sometimes the condemned live longer.





	1. Chapter One

> The fascination of seeing snow for the first time in her life, lasted for about a whole minute. It had looked so soft and beautiful from aboard the ship, yet she almost instantly regretted her initial instinct of touching the cold crystals. Instead of the soft, fluffy feeling the substance look promised, all that Margaery felt was the unbelievable cold, quickly growing wet feeling as it melted in her fingers. The cold wind made her fingers hurt almost immediately. The scars on her hands throbbing. She quickly wiped her hand on her cloak, slipped back into the glove and stuffed her hands deep into cloak’s pockets.
> 
> That was it with the first initial magic of winter. All that was left was the sense that Margaery couldn’t remember ever feeling a cold quite like this in her whole life. She had taken about ten steps off the ship and she could already feel the cold seep through her shoes and creeping up her body. The cold wind was strong and cut like a knife. Even though she was wearing multiple layers of thick textiles, she could feel every breeze of the cold wind on her skin. It took her breathe away every single time. Even the seams of her dress and her long clothes caused her pain as they brushed across her skin with every step she took.
> 
> She quickly abandoned any hope she had of saving what little money she had left, instead of spending it to pay her fare. There was no way she would be able to travel by foot like she would have preferred. Not with the streets being barely freed of the snow and new one falling continuously. Her best option would most likely be asking one of the traveling salesman that received their goods from the ship she had just disembarked and offer to pay for her to ride along. She would just have to be careful about who she chose. Traveling alone as a woman was a risk on its own, but she was confident that she would be able to hold her own ground if she needed to. The gods had blessed her with a good ability to read people, and now that she had made it this far, she knew better than to make any rash decisions that would put her in danger.
> 
> Well, even more danger. She honestly couldn’t remember the last time she had felt safe. Surely not since she had arrived in King’s Landing. Maybe even before that. In retrospect the times she had felt safe had merely been arrogance. Moments where she had started to become unwary of the dangers constantly surrounding her. And how uncertain her stance in all of it had really been. And how easy it had been for Cersei to destroy it all in the end.
> 
> Taking a deep breath of the cool air, Margaery closed her eyes, decisively pushed the dark thoughts away, and reopened them. Now was not the time to sink into reflecting and regretful thoughts, wondering at what point she had ended up down this path and if there had been a moment where she could have stopped it. Instead she gathered her skirts and stepped further along the pier and into the town. She would have to find the market and find her next ride.
> 
> The way she brushed through the market was nothing like she would have done in former times. Before, she would have strolled casually through the market, with ease, stopping whenever she felt like it, to feel the fabric of a shawl or smell a fruit. She used to note the people around her with friendly and kind smiles. Have a talk with merchants or even sit down to have some kind of specialty. Now she could not have cared less for the goods laid out right and left of her. She still walked slowly, but all that her eyes concentrated on were the people behind the stands, as she tried to figure out who could be the most useful to her. In a way, life at court had prepared her perfectly for this.
> 
> A sense of apathy - or was it one more time presumption? - had her choosing the less safe, but more comfortable option. She could have travelled with the elderly merchant and his two daughters, but one look at their skinny horse and the foal that travelled along, made her realize that this journey, while safe – would take more than a fortnight. After traveling for what felt like a year, she could feel herself getting impatient. She yearned for a bed. For the warmth of a home. For something like privacy. For a sense of rest. And for safety.
> 
> Margaery settled into the cart that she had chosen, jammed in between baskets of corn and smoked meat. She used the small bundle that contained her belongings to sit on. In the front, leading the horse, were the two merchants who had agreed to take her along. She figured they were father and son, but did not bother asking. Not even for their names. She’d paid them what they had asked for and asked what time they planned on leaving. As hard as it was, she either trusted them to get her there safely, or she shouldn’t bother to ride with strangers in the first place.
> 
> The movement of the wagon, together with the exhaustion she felt in every bone of her body, put her to sleep before they had travelled for more than an hour.
> 
> She didn’t know for how long she’d slept, but when she awoke it was pitch dark around her. Like every time when she woke up lately, the reality of it all slapped into her face like a cold rag. In the brief moment between sleep and fully being awake, while her mind had not caught up with her, she felt content. Even happy. She had not lost anything or anyone. And then her head caught up, and like every time, her heart broke again. Every time the events would run right before her eyes again, showing everything she had lost. Her brother, her father, her grandmother, Highgarden. All gone. She was the only one left and she felt terribly alone.
> 
> Only two seconds of her grief lasted, before another feeling spread over her. The dark had somewhere along the way become an even greater trouble to her than her grief. The grief she could rationalize. She could try to ignore. This uneasiness, almost fear that came with the dark, had her heart beating faster every time and her mind reeling in the attempt to try to get to a source of light as soon as possible. Still stiff from sleep and the seeping cold, she pushed herself up onto her knees. She tore the blanket covering the wagon space away and looked outside in hope for some light. With this, she could finally concentrate on her surroundings and once again remember where she was. A wagon, with two strangers. High up in the North. She heard breathing next to her, which meant that one of the men had probably laid to rest next to her. The other one, however, seemed still to be leading the horse, because the wagon tottered along continuously.
> 
> The sight before her eyes however, positively took her breath away. All around them was snow that glowed brightly in the full moon it reflected. It was one of the most magnificent sights Margaery had seen in her adult life. It made her almost completely forget all of the terrible things that had happened, as well as the unsure course of her journey. The quiet and the peacefulness calmed her down as if she were enchanted.
> 
> From that moment on, Margaery spent her nights on the coach box. Despite the cold that cut through to her bones and had her frozen stiff when she got off in the morning, she preferred it to the darkness in the back. And while she missed the green of trees and plants, she couldn’t help but being fascinated by the north and its plain and rough nature.
> 
> The hours, yes even days, passed quickly in their journey. For once she seemed to have luck in finding travellers that seemed to be content with just the coins she had paid them for the fare. She was grateful for that. Fighting off unwanted attention was not something she thought she had the strength for anymore. Early on in her travel, she had deemed that men and their desires would not be such a great problem for her. She had thought the scars on her body would give some sort of protection to her. Protect her from looks or other advances. Protect her from even greater threats. That with those scars she would no longer be desirable young woman, but just one out of many, who had been unlucky in life. Who held no attraction or allure to anyone anymore. It had not taken long for that illusion to shatter, just like everything else.
> 
> These men seemed merely to share her goal of trying to get ahead fast. They only took rest when the horse needed it, but kept on going through most of the nights and days. She even learned that their names were Jeorge and Irvyn.  They were father and son, merchants and full blooded Northerners. They’d go to deliver goods to the ancestral homes in the North and load up with goods that they would bring all the way up to the wall.
> 
> And they seemed to be happy simply for someone else but themselves to talk with. Margaery figured that being on the road just the two of them, conversation just between them would run out soon. With her, however, they gladly told her all about the great houses of the North. Every single family history it seemed, historic and recent. Rumours about who’d build an alliance with whom and for what reason. About who had just died and who had given birth. Or who had died giving birth. At the end, Margaery’s mind was full of names and dates, that were too numerous to remember, even though she tried, as they might hold some use for her in the future. It was like her mind did not work as fast as it had, anymore. Mostly, she figured because of the exhaustion that became more and more evident in every bone of her body.
> 
> Where she started to listen extremely carefully and forced herself to remember every little detail, was when they started talking about House Stark. And about Winterfell. As it was her declared destination, she needed to fill all the gaps of knowledge until she arrived there. The last official information she remembered was that Sansa Stark had been married to Roose Bolton’s bastard. There was, of course, a lot of talk that had made it all the way to Kings Landing. About a harsh and wreckful battle of bastards, about the Starks reclaiming Winterfell, talk about a new King in the North. The northern merchants were happy to fill her in about everything that had really happened.
> 
> The more details and stories she heard, the more Margaery had to admit she was truly impressed. It did seem like the Stark siblings had mended a powerful force in the North. A bastard to be called as King in the North, had to be a first. She was looking forward to meeting this Jon Snow. He sounded like quite the impressive character. Just like his sister really. From what was told about the Lady of Winterfell, she had grown up quite a lot from the sweet, naïve girl, that Margaery remembered. It would be quite intriguing to see her again.
> 
> What Margaery did not feel quite as intrigued with, was the presence of Littlefinger there. The declaration he had apparently made for House Stark had initially surprised her, but when she thought about it again, it was really not all that out of character for him after all. The Lannister reign in King’s Landing was weakened, even if Cersei had put herself on the throne. Littlefinger did not make decision out of loyalty, but more based on the factor of which alliance would bring him the biggest advantages. And with the Stark siblings at the top, the North seemed to be a promising rising power.
> 
> She would have to see for herself once she got there. She had little to no doubts that she could trust Sansa. Littlefinger was quite another question. Making him aware of her presence was dangerous. She did not trust Littlefinger in the slightest because she was sur, that he’d hand her over to Cersei in a heartbeat, should it serve his purposes. Yet, Margaery would have to accept his presence as a necessary evil and hope that only the distance she had put between Cersei and herself would be enough to protect her from any harm for now. She had no other choice really. There was no going back.
> 
> Margaery quickly disposed of her initial idea of trying to get to Winterfell without Littlefinger’s knowledge. If he was there, he’d have his network of spies set out there, just as he used to have in King’s Landing.
> 
> Margaery also knew that she would not be able to walk through the gates of Winterfell just announcing herself as the overthrown former Queen Margaery Tyrell. So, she’d have to find a way to address Sansa or the King in the North in a more discreet way. For all the world knew, Margaery Tyrell was dead. Burned to ashes when the great Sept of Baelor had gone off into flames. She could not risk the word of her survival spreading. The one thing she had right now working in her corner, was that the world thought she was dead. That was it. That and her will to survive. And if word got to any servants, she knew that the words would travel fast. First within Winterfell, then in the North. And after that it would just be a matter of time before the wrong person learned of it and passed it on to Cersei.
> 
> Thankfully the long journey had given her time for coming up with an elaborate backstory for herself that would grant her access through the gates of Winterfell. A young woman, a handmaiden, who had once worked in the services of Lady Stark and now was on the search for employment in her services again, seemed like a safe choice. One that would not bring up too many questions.
> 
> In the end, the days passed faster than she had expected. Still this close to her goal, every day seemed to weigh on her nerves a little harder. And Margaery could feel a knot form in her stomach that seemed to grow each day. It was a weird feeling, where she could not wait for this journey to be over and at the same time felt anxious as to what would come next.
> 
> In the end they needed less than a fortnight to travel from White Harbour, before the massive walls of Winterfell appeared in the distance.  Margaery could feel herself growing more anxious as they came closer and closer. This was it. Ever since she’d left the city of King’s Landing behind herself, this had been her destination. The place that would grant her a sense of safety and comfort.
> 
> While Winterfell and Sansa Stark seemed like a good idea to get general protection, it was not self-evident that Sansa would welcome her with open arms. Years had passed since they last saw each other. They had been friends in King’s Landing, but what did she really know about her, other than the general things everybody knew? The last time she had seen her, she had been so young and so scared. Never would she have ever expected Sansa to have an active role in claiming back the North. Let alone a successful one. And yet, the Stark banner waved proudly on the walls of Winterfell.
> 
> It was an impressive castle, she realized as they came closer. High granite walls, and the architecture a lot more delicate than she had expected. It was said that the North was rough. The people from the North were rougher, than Southerners. That the buildings did not have by far the detail and the beauty of those below the Neck. Her first impression, merely showed her that the climate seemed to be the only thing where that was true.
> 
> She was not surprised when the guard at the door greeted Jeorge by his name. He had told her that he was a frequent guest in Winterfell, always delivering goods and trading there. He was greeted with warm words and welcomed back. The guards eyes fell to her then and he looked her up and down. When he questioned her, who she was and what she was doing here, the words she had prepared for days easily slipped off her tongue.
> 
> By the end of her sentence he already seemed bored with her and stepped aside to grant her access through the gates.
> 
> The courtyard which she found herself in was buzzing with activity. Especially with the arrival of the merchant, it seemed to grow even busier quickly. People came to greet the two men and seemed eager to unload the goods they had been transporting.
> 
> Margaery hopped off the wagon and felt her body and feet almost painfully at the impact. Especially the strength that seemed to have left her almost altogether. She thanked Jeorge and Irwyn for the safe travels and the good company and handed them over the few coins she had left as a sign of gratitude - and dearly hoped that she would not need the coins anymore now that she was here.
> 
> Margaery took a moment to look around. She hoped to see a familiar face, but did not find one among the maybe two dozen people that moved around the courtyard. But that would have been a little too easy and too convenient, and that nothing about this journey had been easy, she had learned at the very beginning of it. Why should she expect it to be any different now.
> 
> She noticed two pairs of eyes on herself. Looking, almost staring at her, and she wanted to cry with relief. Sansa stood on the very end of the gallery that framed the courtyard, looking at her in a mixture of shock and awe. Next to her Brienne of Tarth mirrored her expression.
> 
> She managed to smile at the both of them in greeting and something that resembled a shrug. The feeling of having people who knew her looking at her, for the first time in months. Who knew her name, who knew who she was, who she had been. Who knew that she was not the poor, scared servant girl, who had been treated badly by the Gods… it was like she remembered herself in that very moment.
> 
> Sansa was the first to start moving. Her step was quick, but not hasty as she ascended the stairs that led to the courtyard and her eyes remained firmly on Margaery, as if she would disappear like a mirage if she let her out of her sight for a second.
> 
> Margaery willed her own feet to start moving and met her at the bottom of the stairs. Lowering herself in a perfect curtsy, before either Sansa or Brienne could say a word.
> 
> “Lady Sansa, it is a pleasure to see you again,” she said politely. She had to play the role of the servant girl just for a little bit longer. Either of the women opposite to her dropping her name right now, and her disguise would simply go up in flames within moments. “Such a long time, and I never forgot how very kind you were to me during the years I was in your service.”
> 
> There was hesitance and plain confusion playing on Sansa’s face, maybe even a hint of disappointment, as if she wondered if she had confused her with someone else after all. Margaery thoroughly looked, however, and the firm way in which she held her eyes, seemed to slowly make Sansa understand.
> 
> “It is a very pleasant surprise to see you here,” Sansa replied, her hands clasped in front of her tightly, as it was appropriate for a Lady towards her former servant.
> 
> Margaery smiled and felt relief rush through her, when also Brienne seemed to have caught on to the plot and held back from any formal greetings that she would have held appropriate under different circumstances.
> 
> “I came here in the hope that we would be able to discuss a new engagement in your services,” Margaery said, sticking firmly to the words she had prepared in her head. Only that she had not deemed she would speak them directly to Sansa herself.
> 
> “Certainly,” Sansa replied, the hint of a smile was on her face now. “But perhaps not out here in the cold.”
> 
> Sansa made the suggestion that this conversation would best be held in her solar. Almost as a side note, she invited Brienne to join them as well, as she claimed she had to discuss some other matters with her.
> 
> They stepped through long corridors and ascended many steps, in appropriate order. Sansa ahead, then Brienne, then Margaery. They did not speak a single word, until they reached Sansa’s private chambers and the door closed behind them.
> 
> The warmth that these rooms held was a kind of warmth Margaery had not felt in weeks, maybe even months. She closed her eyes for a moment relinquishing the feeling, and when she opened them again, she looked straight into Sansa’s, which had lost the feigned distance and now looked at her with disbelieve and also unbelievable warmth.
> 
> Margaery smiled and closed the distance between them to embrace Sansa, as she had wanted to from the first moment she had seen her. The warm embrace of her friend filled her with a sense of content she had not had so very long. A sense of comfort and familiarity.
> 
> “It is unbelievable,” Sansa spoke, as they parted, her arms still on Margaery’s, holding her within reach. “It is really you.”
> 
> “Word’s cannot express how terrific it is to see you again, Sansa,” Margaery said, her voice even more emotional than she felt. She looked Sansa up and down and her smile grew. Grown up, was mainly what came to mind when looked at Sansa. Her posture, her outfit, the expression on her face. When she looked at her now, it was almost hard to remember the young sad girl she had known in King’s Landing. The Lady of Winterfell really was a good look on her. Gone were the days where it seemed like her limbs were to long for her body, and she had worn those unfashionable too warm and too big clothes, that only added to her sadness.
> 
> It was easy to see that she was in her element here, just in the same way Margaery had never felt more out of place in her life. Sansa’s well put together exterior made her suddenly realize how very worn down she looked herself. Her dress was simple and dusty, the cloak and fur she wore over it were not much better. Sansa’s complexion so fresh and soft, when her own face was marred by scars and dirt.
> 
>  “You look astonishing,” she told Sansa then. “Like a winter flower that has finally blossomed.”
> 
> She turned and the spur of joy at their reencounter reignited when she met Brienne in an embrace as well. Albeit one that was a little more awkward and considerably shorter than the one she had shared with Sansa. But despite the small awkwardness of the moment, Brienne’s face as well held nothing but pleasant surprise and affection as Margaery smiled at her. “Lady Margaery,” she said almost festively. “I cannot tell you how very happy I am, to see that the reports of your death were false.”
> 
> “As am I,“ Margaery said in the attempt of a joke, but the smile did not quite reach her eyes. Joking about almost dying did not come all that easy. Especially not when she felt as exhausted as she did.
> 
> Sansa seemed to catch on to how much her journey still weighed on her and was quick to lead her to the set of chairs that stood around a small table. “Please, sit,” she offered, her tone more like a demand that did not accept any back talk.
> 
> Brienne, just as attentive to her, soon handed a cup of spiced wine to her. A warm and comfortable smell filled Margaery’s nose as she took the cup between her hands.
> 
>  “Thank you for going along with my disguise as a servant girl,” Margaery acknowledged then, as she warmed her hand on the hot surface of the cup in her hands.  “But I could not risk announcing myself with my real name and possibly draw attention to myself.”
> 
> She finally allowed herself a tiny sip, feeling the hot fluid running down her throat and starting to warm her from the inside. It was certainly not dornish wine, it was maybe one of the poorest wine’s she ever tasted, yet at the same time nothing had ever tasted quite as good.
> 
> “Milady, I hope you can forgive me the very direct question, but how on earth did you survive?” Brienne asked. “The reports said that sept and the large parts of the city around it were completely destroyed.”
> 
> That was a question she was prepared for. Mostly because she had asked herself the same question about a million times already. As well as the question of ‘why’ that still wavered in her mind, whether she liked it or not.
> 
> “I honestly don’t know,” Margaery said simply. A couple of weeks ago, thinking about it, thinking about the wildfire and everything that came after, had made her a lot more emotional. Now she felt nearly numb talking about it. Like it was something that had not happened to her, but to someone else. And in a way – it had. “I should have been in the centre of the explosion and burned to ash like everyone else, but they found me in the ruins of the streets leading up to the Sept.”
> 
> She was telling the truth. Her memory cut off in the Sept, when she had tried to convince that bull headed High Sparrow that they were in danger. She could feel anger rising in her chest just thinking about it. An anger that was so great, especially in hindsight of how powerless she had been, sometimes she was afraid it would swallow her and leave nothing but a dark hole. For someone who was so set out to do good, the High Sparrow ended up having a lot of people on his conscience. He was a perfect example of why one should not rely on the gods alone to take care of everything.
> 
> The first thing she remembered being conscious of again was darkness and unbearable pain. It was so clear in her memory, that she had to tighten the scarf around her in order to not shiver. Margaery’s best guess was that she was buried in the ruins. She didn’t know how long she stayed there and like this. The pain had made her lose consciousness and forced her back into it countless times. It hadn’t taken her very long until she wished for the relief of death to come upon her. So much so, that it had become the single thought on her mind.
> 
> “A woman took me in and cared to my wounds.” Margaery continued in a solemn voice. The memory was too dark to even attempt a fake smile. “I still have no clear idea how much time passed until I was fully conscious again.”
> 
> The fear she had felt back then was still enough to close her throat up even today. Not knowing what had happened, the pain, not being able to move. Having no idea where she was or who the stranger in the room with her was. For all Margaery knew, she could have been working for Cersei and all of it had been a perverted way in which Cersei had decided to torture her. And even if she’d had been in the clear about any of it, there was nothing she would have been able to do in her state.  Not when as much as opening her eyes sent her into intolerable pain that had her on the verge of fainting.
> 
> “I suppose I have to be thankful,” Margaery mused. “I never asked her how, but she had the knowledge of a Maester. I reckon without her, I’d look a lot worse than I do.”
> 
> Having the dressings all over her body changed was also something that would forever be branded into her mind.  The removal of the dried-up ointment-soaked rags, that had been stuck to her body in parts. Then the washing with myrish fire to clean the wounds that was by far the nothing less of a torture. And then fresh ointment and clean rags. She remembered that the bowl containing the myrish fire was always red at the end of the process.
> 
> She saw the deep compassion in the two pair of eyes that rested upon her, and suddenly she felt it for herself. Like someone acknowledging that what she had overcome was horrific, it made it all right for her to feel it.
> 
> “Did she know who you were?” Sansa wondered.
> 
> Margaery had wondered that herself, she never asked. She had never told the woman - Stella - her real name. She shook her head. “I doubt it. I don’t know if she would have helped me if she had known.” Her eyes grew dark, but she did not elaborate it any further.
> 
> She remembered Stella’s words so clearly she could still hear them. “For a week, they hindered anyone to go near the ruins. So many houses around the sept had caught fire as well… so many people… so many children… we heard them screaming, but we were forbidden to help any of them.”
> 
> Why she, among everyone who had been caught in the fire that day, had survived, she did not know. And probably never would.
> 
> Instead she focused on the question she still needed to ask, even though the doubts in her mind had vanished considerably ever since the almost joyful way Sansa had greeted her.
> 
> She cleared her throat and leaned forward putting the cup down on the table.
> 
> “I realize that it is a lot to ask, especially since I can’t offer you more than my friendship and my loyalty,” Margaery paused, her eyes nearly pleading. “But I’m dearly hoping that you will kind enough to take me in grant me protection.”
> 
> Sansa looked confused for a moment, then almost appalled, as if the suggestion that she’d reject Margaery was simply infame. “How could I ever turn you away?” she asked with a shake of her head. “You are welcome here for as long as you want.”
> 
> A great sense of gratitude overcame Margaery and she reached for Sansa’s hand to give it a gentle squeeze, that she hoped underlined how very grateful she was. “Thank you.”
> 
> “It’s the least I can do,” Sansa vowed.
> 
> “There is one more thing, I want to ask you,” Margaery added hesitantly. “The world thinks that I’m dead, and I would very much appreciate it if it could stay that way. At least for now.”
> 
> Sansa looked at her thoughtfully. “You don’t want Cersei to find out,” she recognized
> 
> Margaery just nodded. It felt too straining to explain all the reasons as to why she asked for this. For one, she was afraid. Everything she had been through, was still very present in her mind, and she did not dare to think what Cersei would do to her should she get her in her hands. Another reason was that she needed some rest first, before she could even try to think about what should come next for her. People learning that she was alive would undoubtedly come with some expectations for her to take action, to avenge her family. She knew very well, that she would not be able to spend the rest of her life hidden out in the North, but for the moment she was too exhausted to even think about the next couple of hours. Let alone, her future.
> 
> “That sounds manageable,” Sansa said. “No one here would even have an idea of what Margaery Tyrell looks like. Besides Brienne and I, there is no one here you’d have ever met before.” She paused. “And Lord Baelish.”
> 
> Margaery nodded at the mention of him. “I have to admit, I was surprised when I learned of his presence here,” she said carefully.
> 
> “He declared for House Stark,” Sansa said, her face neutral, but lacking the prior friendliness. “He has been a truthful and valuable ally.”
> 
> So far, Margaery thought grimly. Brienne seemed to share that thought. Her eyes and face had hardened at the mention of him.
> 
> “Do you trust him?” Margaery asked then.
> 
> “Only a fool would trust Littlefinger,” Sansa simply stated.
> 
> That was not news to Margaery. But it was also not what she had meant. Her question was, if Sansa thought it was safe to trust him with the news of her arrival in Winterfell. Of her survival.
> 
> “Let me rephrase,” Margaery then said. “Do you deem it would be safe if he learnt of my presence here?”
> 
> Sansa seemed to ponder over that question for a moment. “To be completely honest, I can’t guarantee it. But I don’t think we’d be able to keep your presence a secret from him for very long,” Sansa admitted. “If I were you, I’d have him learn about it on my terms, rather than his.”
> 
> That was a very good point, Margaery had already considered. Secrecy would only make an already complicated situation worse. If they informed him about her survival then at least she would not have to hide from him, and be able to keep an eye on him herself.
> 
> “I reckon you are right,” Margaery declared then. “Knowing him, he’ll find out one way or another. Why prolong the inevitable.”
> 
> “If I may,” Brienne spoke up. “If it is your own safety you are worried about, let me assure you, that I will do everything in my power to protect you from any harm.”
> 
> “As will I,” Sansa agreed.
> 
> Margaery smiled gratefully at the two of them. “You are both too kind.”
> 
> “But how about, we postpone this announcement to tomorrow?” Sansa then suggested and then looked at Margaery with concerned eyes. “You look so very exhausted, I’m a little worried you will collapse on this chair.”
> 
> Margaery managed a small smile. “I am,” she acknowledged. “To the bone.”
> 
> Brienne straightened her back. “I can see to that a room is set up for the Lady Margaery,” she offered to Sansa.
> 
> Sansa nodded. “I’d appreciate that Brienne.” She contemplated for a moment and then suggested to have the chamber adjoining to hers set up.
> 
> “It used to be occupied by my mother’s handmaiden,” she explained when Brienne had left them alone. “If we do not want the world to know that you are alive, then we cannot attract attention by treating you like any other highborn guest.”
> 
> “And no one would take a second look at a handmaiden,” Margaery concluded, impressed with Sansa’s careful consideration. “It’s a good idea.”
> 
> Margaery put the empty cup down at the table, the wine had made her heavy limbs even heavier and her mind was suddenly so tired, probably also caused by the wine, and it felt a little hard to concentrate.
> 
> “I apologize if I’m not very entertaining company right now,” Margaery spoke into the silence between them after a little while.
> 
> Sansa shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said quickly. “We will have plenty of time to talk.”
> 
> Margaery smiled, finding that she was really looking forward to this. She very much wanted to learn all about this only vaguely familiar Lady Stark. This Lady of Winterfell. Whatever her journey had been that had brought her here, Margaery figured that it was an intriguing one. One she was very curious to learn.
> 
> “I’m glad you made it home, Sansa,” she then said.
> 
> Sansa smiled a little. “As am I. There was a time when I had not dared to hope to be where I am now.”
> 
> Margaery nodded. Maybe the same thing would go for her. Maybe one day, she would be able to look back and think of this not as the end of her story, but as the beginning. Maybe, one day.
> 
> It did not take long until Brienne returned with the news that the room had been set up as requested. Sansa opened the adjoining door that led to her own bed chamber and then had Margaery follow her through the discreet door that opened the way to what would be Margaery’s chamber from now on.
> 
> “These rooms used to belong to my mother’s handmaiden,” Sansa explained. “They’re not much, but we will make them more comfortable within the next days.
> 
> “Sleeping in a real bed will be more than I had quite some time,” Margaery acknowledged simply.
> 
> When they entered the room, she found herself pleasantly surprised what had been done in such a short time. A fresh mattress, fresh linens and furs on the bed. Toiletries set up on a side table along with clean towels and a set of fresh clothes, including a night gown. A fire was burning in the chimney and a large tub filled with steaming water had been set up.
> 
> Sansa then was quick to withdraw herself, leaving her with the words that she should not hesitate to tell her if there was anything she needed.
> 
> Margaery stood alone in the room and suddenly felt a sense of privacy. She was on her own and would not be disturbed.
> 
> Sansa had read her well when she suggested she would settle in for the night. And Brienne’s idea to draw her a bath had truly been divine. She had tried to keep up a general hygiene while she had travelled, but it had been way longer than she cared to admit since she had bathed. Margaery was quick to discard her clothes into a small heap on the floor and the cold enveloping her body made her slip into the water even faster.
> 
> Margaery let her body sink into the steaming water that smelled of eucalyptus and pine. She nearly groaned at the feeling. She tilted her head back to dunk it into the water until only her face peeked up from the water. The water was pleasantly warm and she could feel her muscles relaxing; her body felt properly warm for the first time since she stepped off the ship in White Harbor. For a moment, she stayed just like this. With only her face sticking out of the warm surface, she breathed deeply, letting herself soak. Suddenly, without prior warning, she felt her breath hitch and she pushed herself up into a sitting position, a sob forming itself in her throat. She tried to regain her composure and splashed water on her face, but her breath still quickened and her eyes squeezed shut as the water dripped off her chin. And then, it was not only water that soaked her skin.
> 
> The simple action of stepping into a warm bath had brought tears to her eyes and before she knew it, the first tear drop poured over her face, followed by many more. She buried her face in her hands and cried and sobbed. About nothing, and yet about everything at once. In all those months she had not cried. Not in the dungeon of the Sept, not when she had said goodbye to her Grandmother. And even after the Sept of Baelor. She’d denied herself tears when she was naked and vulnerable, more dead than alive in a stranger’s home as they treated her wounds. She had not cried when she realized that neither her father or her brother had survived or when she learned of her Grandmother’s demise. Not once, during everything she had endured to get here. And now the feeling of sitting in a bathtub, in a servant’s chamber, at the other end of the world, was what broke her.
> 
> Her tears flew freely for what must have been more than an hour. She did not try to wash herself or scrub at her skin. She simply sat there unable to do anything but cry as the water grew cooler and cooler around her. She shed all the tears for all her loved ones she had lost and for herself and the life she had once lived. For her lost beauty, her fight to survive and the part of herself that had gone missing through all of it.
> 
> Only when the water had become almost uncomfortably cool she found it within herself to lather herself up with soap and rinse it off. She managed to heave herself out of the tub, her limbs  heavy like lead. The cold air hit her wet skin felt as sharp as a knife and she was quick to wrap herself up in the towel that had been prepared.
> 
> In an attempt to regain her composure, she walked over to the window, which was covered by a heavy Gobelin. The great wide of the north covered in glittering snow greeted her one more time as she pulled it aside. She breathed in the cool air and felt her heart beat slow back to a normal rhythm. That was as far as she ever would let her composure slip from her again, she promised herself. She felt terribly exhausted. The thought of leaning back and just stop caring about everything was alluring. Very alluring.
> 
> There had been a brief point right after learning of her Grandmother’s death, where she had considered just giving up. She had wondered if all had really been worth it. All the lies, the intrigue, for just a brief taste of power. Had being Queen really been worth risking her life over it? Losing her life even. Losing everyone she loved. Had it been it worth it?
> 
> Margaery let the curtain fall back over the window, the draught made the flames of the candles flicker for a second. Margaery walked back into the room and began rubbing her arms over the towel to dry herself. Her eyes dropped to the plain night gown and the leather fur lined slippers that lay prepared for her. The room seemed warm enough and not sleeping in all of her clothes would feel so fantastic. 
> 
> The warmth inside the walls of Winterfell, together with the wine and the hot bath, had her barely able to keep her eyes open anymore. But if Margaery was honest to herself, what weighed in the strongest on her tiredness was the knowledge that for the first time in a long period, she would not have to be on her own. Not go to sleep with the feeling that she might wake up to someone stealing from her, threatening her, or worse. 
> 
> Slipping into a bed, quite so warm and so soft, was a luxury Margaery had not had in months. It was one of those things she never really appreciated before they were taken away from her. After being released from the cells of the sept, it had become clear to her the first time. After being robbed of something that she had taken for granted her entire life, she had, for the first time, come to think about how rare the life she lived was. And how many people, how many of her people, had never known the comfort of a big clean bed and probably never would.
> 
> It was just one example of how the time in the cells had changed something fundamentally about her. It went without saying that she was not the humble servant to the faith and to the gods that she had pretended to be. That had plain and simply been the only way to get out of a bad situation. However, one did not spend weeks in in rags and a cell without being affected by it. Save, maybe, Cersei Lannister. Although what may have shifted in her was an even bolder will to survive and to push everyone who threatened that out of her way.
> 
> And that, Cersei did quite recklessly, Margaery thought as she ran a hand down her neck, where a leather like structure met her fingers instead of the soft and pale skin she used to have. She dropped her hands from what she was doing.
> 
> She dropped the towel over a chair.
> 
> The light the candles gave was weak, and in this moment, Margaery was grateful for it. Her eyes landed on herself in the small foggy mirror that the chamber was equipped with. She had not seen herself in a mirror since recovering. It might be the bad light, but she thought that the scars that now covered such a big part of her skin had grown finer and faded a bit. Her hair slowly started to reach a length that was suitable for women. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying, but that would subside. It was the first chance to look at her body through a mirror and even though she was a bit afraid of it, she forced herself to take a close look.
> 
> From the top or her head to the tip of her toes there was hardly a spot that was not affected. Just the intensity varied. It was the worst starting from just below her left eye, sideways down across her face, covering her complete shoulders, her chest and her right arm, as well as her right leg. It looked remotely like a leathery shawl covered her in those parts. The rest of her skin looked rougher and shone in an angry red in most places, but it was not quite as bad. Probably solvable, if she had access to any of the creams and ointments she used to have, but this was not the time for vanities. She would not be able to use her beauty to further her claims as she had in the past, so why bother. She’d have to go with what she had.
> 
> It was just the surface, she told herself. What was a little bit scarring, as long as no one had managed to break her spirit, if it meant that she had survived. Not being a suitable price for matrimony could in fact turn out as good fortune. Not that there was any family anymore that could use her as a token. That, in fact, was a new kind of freedom that she never had before in her life and did not yet really know what to do with.
> 
> Her eyes dropped lower, with revulsion. The swell of her womb was unmistakable. With her clothes on, with a girdle tightly around her midsection, she had been able to ignore it more easily. Ignore that it was growing. Ignore the kicks and the movement that had started not too long ago. Now it stuck out proudly. Nearly daring her to take note of it. 
> 
> She quickly adverted her gaze, with her jaw clenched and pulled the nightgown over her head. The question of if it was all worth it, was no longer important. It was no longer just about her.
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How I imagine Margaery's appearance in the story can be found here:   
> hell-much.tumblr.com/post/182282358770/i-took-my-time-out-from-writing-into-another


	2. Chapter Two

Sansa would have thought that after having first Brann and then Arya appear seemingly out of nowhere on the gates of Winterfell, that aside from her dead parents rising, there would be short to nothing that could truly surprise her. Because once you had your younger siblings, whom you were sure were dead, back in your life, there was hardly anything to top that. Luckily, she found that she could still be proven wrong.

When that petite figure, covered in a heavy furry cloak and several scarfs, had looked up at her from the court yard the day before, Sansa had for a moment not trusted her eyes or her mind. Because how was it possible that she was not only still alive, but also standing within the walls of Winterfell, giving that small crooked smile. Only Brienne’s sharp intake of breath, had made her realized that she was not imagining it.

It was unbelievable that she was alive, Sansa thought to herself. She had never doubted that Margaery was strong, but even though it came close to a miracle, it was evident that she had paid dearly, even in her survival.

Only when she got closer did Sansa notice the scars. While she had become a master of keeping her face and her emotions under control, she was still only barely had been able to suppress the gasp that wanted to escape her. The visible skin on Margaery’s neck had an angry red scar-like texture that reached like a sideway veil over half of her face. The other half was also reddened, although it still seemed smoother and not quite as badly affected. Margaery’s formerly long majestic hair was now a lot shorter; it was curly and barely reached her shoulders. In a way, she reminded Sansa of Loras because of it.

There was so much Sansa had wanted to ask her. What had happened. How she was alive. How she had made it out of that wrecked town and all the way up North all on her own. Why she had chosen Winterfell of all places in the seven kingdoms. But Sansa had quickly noticed that in the warmth of her chambers, and together with the wine, had made Margaery’s eyes heavy. The gods only knew how long she had been on the road, and what the journey had taken from her.

They would have time to talk. Time to answer all those open questions. Time to get to know one another again.

She had learned of what had happened in King’s Landing only a couple of weeks ago. Not too long before Jon had taken off to Dragon Stone. The news of Margaery’s death had filled her with a deep sense of remorse. The thought that the kind and smart and beautiful Margaery Tyrell, who had always been so very friendly to her, was nothing more than a heap of ashes, had been a terrible thought. One that put a considerable dent into the contentment that being back in her home and being safe had given her. For one, because she hated that she had not even gotten the chance to properly bid farewell to Margaery the last time they had seen each other. One more person she would never see again, whom she could not tell how very thankful she was for everything. One more person that Cersei had just taken from her. That Cersei had cold bloodedly killed because they deemed a threat to her – to her power.

If Sansa was honest, the sorrow in learning of Margaery’s death, was not as great as the anger that had come with it. As well as a sense of awareness. Awareness that no one was ever save from that wretched woman.

And yet, somehow Margaery had survived her.

Sansa stood outside the door that connect her own chamber to Margaery’s with  a tray that held some tea, and some freshly baked lemon cakes. She deemed that Margaery had to be hungry and wanted to scold herself for not thinking about offering her some dinner the previous night. Sansa figured that Margaery had to be starving after her long journey.

She announced herself with an audible knock against the door and waited the appropriate time until she was called in. Margaery was already awake, sitting at the small vanity. She had put on the dress that she had been provided with. It was a simple grey linen dress, but the green scarf she had put around her shoulders made her look fresh. Her hair was a mess out of bouncy curls and her complexion held that small sparkle that had been missing the previous day. The smile she greeted Sansa with was sincere and almost contagious. Leave it to Margaery Tyrell to still look just this pretty, radiant, and charming with half of her face destroyed.

“I hope you had a good night’s rest?” Sansa asked politely, putting the tray down on the vanity.

Margaery nodded and smiled a little. “So good I had a hard waking up time this morning, remembering where I am.”

“That’s good,” Sansa said and she looked around in the room. It held all necessities, but it was bare. The simple warm touches missing that would make it more comfortable. “I realize the setup is not ideal, but we can see today how we can make the chamber as comfortable as possible for you.”

Margaery shook her head. “You should not worry. I have everything I need.” She paused a moment, averting her eyes from Sansa and focusing them on her hair instead.

Sansa smiled mildly and shook her head. She watched Margaery for a moment, frowning at her antics. “What are you doing there?”

Margaery seemed to struggle with the brush that she drew through her hair again and again. The mess of curls seemingly barely containable. “I feel asleep with my hair still wet and without brushing it prior,” she explained with a sigh. Sansa found herself a little amused at just how frustrated Margaery seemed.

She watched Margaery making the mess even worse, only for a moment before she took the brush from her hands, and started running it through her short curls. Carefully untangling and sorting the light brown strands.

“I miss my long hair, most of all.” Margaery confessed into the silence as she her fingertips brushed the tip of her hair. “I miss wearing it in fancy ways. It was such a big part of my daily routine, having it done in the fancy ways….  I know it sounds silly.”

“It’ll grow back,” Sansa told her softly.

Margaery smiled even a little wider, maybe in order to hide her own insecurity and touched a hand to the short curls framing her face briefly, twisting a tip around her finger. “It’s completely silly, I know.” She paused for the length of five brushes, before she dropped her hand and continued. “I suppose if I want to be vain and worry about my looks, there are a couple of issues that I shut put ahead of longing for my stupid hair.”

Sansa did not know what to answer to that. It was undeniable that Margaery had been robbed of her former beauty. Quite drastically. But it was not as if she was hopelessly defaced. Sansa was kind of surprised how pretty she looked despite the scars on her face. Her eyes still held a spark to them and so did her smile.

“They’re just scars,” Sansa said then. “Men have their scars from the battle they have overcome, we have our own.”

Sansa did not want to be reminded of the ones that were hidden under her own dress. Not now. Not in a time, when she happy to have her friend back. He did not get to ruin moments like that, by looming in her mind. Not anymore.

“I suppose you are right,” Margaery mused.

After thoroughly brushing out Margaery’s hair she drew her fingers through it a couple of times, wondering if it was long enough yet to create something that would keep it out of her face. She then started by creating small braids on either side of her head that she connected in a way, so that only the hair on a small part at the back of her head fell freely, covering the nape of her neck.

Margaery turned and twisted her head in the mirror, admiring Sansa’s handiwork. “It looks lovely,” she commented finally. “Thank you.”

Sansa sat down at the foot end of the bed, softly smiling at Margaery. So many years since they had seen each other. And yet, sitting here with her, there was a sense of familiarity that Sansa had not yet experienced with anyone. Not even with her own siblings when they had returned. Maybe because Margaery had not changed quite as much, she figured. She had been through a lot, for sure, but she still had the same smile, still the soft way of speaking. The same kind eyes. 

“I thought you might be hungry,” Sansa said then, gesturing to the tray she had brought with her.

“I am indeed,” Margaery replied. Still she was slow in reaching for one of the cakes and only tore a little piece of it off, slipping it between her lips. She hummed in quiet relish and closed her eyes. “Gods, these are good.”

“I’m glad you like them.”

“The best I have ever had,” Margaery vowed, reaching for another piece. “I suppose the cook will put special effort when it comes to creating your favourite food.”

Sansa was surprised for moment, that Margaery remembered they were her favourite, but only smiled and nodded. “I suppose so. Every batch is a little bit better than the last.”

Margaery wiped some crumbs of her hand and looked at her searching, her eyes more piercing than normally.

„Tell me, Sansa,“ Margaey asked then. “How are you?”

Sansa hesitated before answering the question. It felt like no one had asked her that in quite some time, not even herself. How was she? She was content. She had felt a sense of peace, ever since she was back in Winterfell. Like all of those harsh years and everything she had endured, were worth it, because now she was back here.

“I’m doing well,” she then settled on.

“Just well?” Margaery questioned.

“It is all still a little surreal,” Sansa acknowledged then. Not only being back at Winterfell. Being safe, still felt strange. Not having to turn her head at every step she took. Having her family back was also something that still took adjustment. Having to reign the North in Jon’s absence was something that, even just a year ago, she would have not thought possible.

“I can imagine,” Margaery answered, to Sansa’s relief not going further into the topic.

A couple seconds of silence followed as she ate another piece of cake.

“I figured, I could send for Lord Baelish in a little while,” Sansa suggested then. “He will assume something is disarray, as I did not share breakfast with him this morning.”

Margaery merely nodded. “I suppose it is better to make fast work on that.” Her expression shifted. “Will your brother be there as well?”

Sansa blinked for a moment, then it dawned on her that Margaery was not talking about Bran, but about Jon. “He is not here. He has travelled to Dragon Stone in order to discuss a possible alliance with Daenerys Targaryen.”

Sansa wondered for a moment if she should disclose the threat that loomed in the North as the reason why Jon had travelled South, but decided against it. She’d have to learn of it soon enough. Learn that if it was safety she had come looking for by coming to Winterfell, she had travelled in the wrong cardinal direction.

Margaery took her words in and then nodded. “That sounds like quite the partnership,” she acknowledged. “From what I heard, my Grandmother was in alliance with her as well. So I reckon she is a sensible choice to build an alliance with.” She lost herself in the thought.

Sansa could not help but wonder why Margaery had not asked for Daenerys’s help. But in the same moment she asked herself this question, she already knew the answer. What could she offer to the self-proclaimed queen? She had no power, no army… hell, getting to Dragonstone in the first place would have been a problem. It was not like merchant ships took routine trips there.

“We should, however, discuss if you want my siblings in the know,” Sansa pointed out carefully, not surprised when Margaery blinked at her in confusion.

„I’m sorry, I might have just misheard, but … siblings?”

Sansa smiled as she told Margaery about the unexpected return of her brother and sister. It had only been a couple of days since Arya had appeared at the gates of Winterfell, and it had been a fortnight since Bran’s showing up.

“I’m very glad that after all those years, you managed to get your home and your family back,” Margaery said sounding sincerely happy for her. “It is so much more than I could have ever hoped for you, all that time ago in King’s Landing.”

Yes, Sansa supposed that was true. It was a lot more than she had dared to hope for, for a long time. And then the image of Bran came to her mind. And how much he had changed. The things he said, the way he acted, it was like any trace of the joyous little boy she had remembered her brother as had disappeared. Arya did not seem quite as different, but the glimpse to what she could do, when she had fought with Brienne, it made Sansa anxious as well. Showed her that there was so much she did not know about her. Yes, she got her family back, but she did not recognize them anymore.

She must have been quiet for an inappropriate amount of time, because when she looked up again, Margaery had finished her food and was wiping her hands on a napkin.

 It dawned on Sansa then, what she did not know yet. Even though she knew the answer before asking the question. “What about your brother? Your father?” she asked carefully. “If you survived the wild fire…”

Margaery shook her head and replied very curtly, her eyes lowered. “I do not have any hope that either of them is still breathing.”

She could not allow herself to, Sansa thought, and again understood this very well. Not getting your hopes up sometimes was necessary in order to survive. Sansa saw the sadness in Margaery’s eyes, and once again the deep sense of exhaustion.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Sansa spoke softly. Offering condolences seemed the least she could do. Even though she knew very well that in the end they were only empty words. “Loras, your father, Lady Olenna… they were all such kind people. None of them deserved to die.”

„No they didn’t,“ Margaery agreed, her eyes still lowered, then she managed to give Sansa a quick smile of gratitude. “I appreciate your kind words. Thank you.” She took a breath in an attempt to refocus. “As for your question: I’d leave it up to you if you want to fill them in or not. You know them best after all.”

Only I don’t, Sansa thought, but did not want to disclose that to Margaery just yet. “I suppose the less people who know about you being here the better,” she concluded then.

She did not think for a moment that either Bran or Arya would reveal Margaery being here, but something told her it was better if they did not know quite yet. Something told her that especially Arya would not go very easy on Margaery, who had not only been married to one, but two Lannister Kings.

“Let’s go to my solar,” Sansa suggested then. “I will send for Lord Baelish.”

“Maybe you will want to talk to him on your own first?” Margaery suggested hesitantly. “Prepare him.”

Sansa was on her feet and only shook her head. “Trust me, if anyone can handle that the dead have risen it is Lord Baelish,” she said. “I’ll be surprised if he as much as blinks.”

Margaery stood up as well, pulling the large scarf tighter around herself. “I suppose you are right.”

As expected, Littlefinger greeted her well composed and surprise only for the split of a second visible in his eyes. “As I live and breathe,” Littlefinger he said, the door closing behind him. “Lady Margaery.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips in a hinted kiss. 

“It‘s a pleasure to see you again, Lord Baelish,” Margaery said, with a polite smile. “I was glad to learn of your declaration for House Stark.”

“Choosing the right side was long overdue,” he told her and then did a small bow. “It is a great relief to see that the news of your death was false.”

“As am I,” she nodded.

The way they spoke to each other, reminded her so much of King’s Landing, her skin was almost crawling. Such seemingly friendly and kind words that veiled a certain distrust they had for the other. On Margaery’s end this distrust was of course obvious. And Sansa also knew that Littlefinger was by nature very careful with anyone who’s ambitions he was not quite aware of yet. Something that of course went with who he was.

“If you allow the question milady,” Littlefinger then started. “How did you manage to survive?”

Sansa almost admired the calm and collected way in which Margaery answered all of Littlefinger’s questions. The same questions she had answered the night before. With answers that undoubtedly had to take a toll on her, simply because they forced her to remember everything she had endured and lost. But she noted that the answers Littlefinger received were a lot shorter and less emotionally afflicted as the ones she had gotten the previous night.

He was also surprisingly quick to agree on Margaery’s wish that her survival as well as her presences in Winterfell would remain a secret.

“And the story you came up with is simple and believable, if I might say so,” he said, and it vaguely sounded like a compliment. “No one would question your presences with the Lady Sansa if you pose as her handmaiden. If I might suggest though, the disguise would work even better should you actually be taking over some of a handmaiden’s duties.”

Sansa almost immediately shook her head at the suggestion. “That is out of the question,” she spoke and turned to Margaery. First of all, she did not need a handmaiden. She did not want a handmaiden. She had been just fine on her own, for quite some time now. And secondly, she could never ask of Margaery Tyrell of all people to do servant tasks.

„Lord Baelish might have a point,“ Margaery considered carefully. “People might start to ask question if your new handmaiden is not doing as expected of her.”

Sansa knew the argument was valid, but that still did not ease her mind in this question. She felt Littlefinger’s eyes on her and hoped that he did not assume what set her up quite so much against this suggestion.

There were of course reasons as to why she did not have the handmaiden that would have been due for her. And it was not like the young maids offered her their services several times. Sansa simply found that she preferred to do the things that had to do with her personal appearance or would require proximity to someone else herself.

It was not as if she was traumatized in anyway. Not anymore at least. But given the choice, she simply preferred not having anybody present when she was bathing. Or dressing herself. And doing her own hair had become one of her easiest tasks in the last year.

She was glad that she had awoken earlier than Margaery today. It saved her from giving her any kind of explanation today. In the coming days, though, she would have to see.

Margaery did, however, seem to have an idea. Her eyes grew soft. “If it is me invading on your privacy that you are worried about…”

Sansa shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she spoke, not even bothering with the suggestion.

It was their best solution, she knew that. No one would ask why this strange woman was within her quarters when she posed as a handmaiden. No one would question when they walked the walls of Winterfell together. They simply have to watch not calling Margaery by her real name in public. Or any other term that suggested she was highborn.

“I‘m glad we are on the same page,” Littlefinger concluded, even though she had not agreed quite yet. He immediately went to the next point. “Also, if I may suggest it, and believe me I realize it’s not ideal, but I’d suggest you roam around as little as possible? Especially on your own. It is an off chance, but there might still someone who’d recognize you.”

Margaery did not seem too ecstatic about the prospect, but nodded anyway. “Anything that keeps me alive and save.” And there where not many other options for her available currently, but she did not say that. „And I don’t think minor things like fixing your hair every day are a too big price for that.”

While Sansa admired Margaery’s pragmatism and her willingness to adjust to the circumstances, she again could feel her own reluctance.

“I’m very capable of fixing my own hair,” she said. “You don’t actually have to do that.”

“We want people to believe, that you have a southern handmaiden,” Littlefinger pointed out. “And people might wonder what this handmaiden is doing if you look the same every day.”

“I think you are confusing Winterfell with King’s Landing,” Sansa told him curtly.

Margaery tilted her head. “I do get the impression that the North is not quite as focused on superficial things, as I grew accustomed to.” And was quick to add: “Which I do not mean in the least as a negative thing. I do not think I will miss the long discussions about nacre hair pins versus ivory ones, even in the slightest.”

She smiled, and Sansa watched the way she pulled again on the scarf that was around her torso. She seemed to be freezing every second throughout the day. They would have to set her up with some warmer clothes, she decided then.

“Still,” Littlefinger said, not quite willing to drop the subject of her bloody hair already, a sly smile playing on his lips. “I suppose it’s a pity that you can’t brag that the Queen of Westeros was the one to fix your hair. I don’t think many people can say that.”

Sansa almost rolled her eyes. Of course, this was what he was getting at. Because superficial talk was never just superficial talk with Littlefinger. He could not even let Margaery spend a full day in Winterfell, before he got to the topic of figuring out her ambitions.

“Abolished queen,” Margaery corrected surprisingly firmly.

“Knowing you, you’ll find a way to revoke that.” The words had left Sansa’s mouth, before she had considered them. It was what she thought, but normally she knew better than to just blurt her thoughts out. She only avoided Margaery’s eyes for a moment longer, then she looked up and met Margaery’s and Littlefinger’s eyes.

Margaery looked at her with the perfect mixture out of confusion and incomprehension. “What makes you say that?”

Sansa shrugged and raised her chin. She knew how to play the height difference she held over most people.   “You’ve been the widowed or abolished queen two times before. That never stopped you from reaching for the crown again.”

Margaery shook her head, her expression solemn. “I know when I have lost,” she said. “Cersei has taken everything from me and I do not intend to hand her my life – the one thing I have left – on a silver platter, in something as dispensable as the iron throne.”

Sansa saw the expression of Littlefinger and could tell that he wondered if she had lost her mind; it almost made her chuckle.

“You might be the only person in the world to call the iron throne dispensable”, Sansa noted.

“And the last person I would have expected to do so,” Littlefinger was quick to add, apparently regaining some of his composure.

Margaery sighed. Her fingers played with the ornaments on the arm rests and her eyes followed the movement of them as she followed every pattern thoughtfully, before she looked at them again. “I don’t want to shock you Lord Baelish, but I have grown from the ambitious power hungry girl you met in a war camp, so many years ago.”

“I do not doubt it,” Littlefinger returned in an apologetic tone. “Still, without any offense meant, this does not sound like you at all.”

Margaery leaned back in her chair, her head tilted, her fingers now playing with the scarf she had wrapped around herself. “How well would you say you knew my grandmother?” she asked.

“I guess as well as anyone who ever met her as briefly as I did,” he answered her vaguely.

“And how would you describe her, if someone asked you to?”

He considered his words carefully. “She was a smart woman. With a quick tongue, a great taste for power. Certainly wise with years. And with a great mind for the bigger cohesions of it all.”

Fancy way of saying she was a self-opinionated, power-hungry old wench, who meddled in just about everything, Sansa thought to herself, remembering the words she had heard to describe Olenna Tyrell.

Margaery smiled, however, apparently satisfied with the answer he had provided.

“My grandmother’s whole life, was a struggle for power,” Margaery finally elaborated. “There was not a thing she did in her life that wasn’t somehow calculating. Even the way she distributed affection to those closest to her. I was her favourite because she saw all my potential to go places. I wonder if she thought it was worth it in the end, those brief moments of an illusion of power, when the poison slowly took the life from her.”

Sansa’s eyes stayed unwavering on her.

“I’ve been on the verge of death, and all I could feel was regret,” Margaery spoke in a sinister voice. “Regret for playing a dangerous game that inevitably feeds on those who participate and devours them.”

Sansa was surprised when Margaery chose this moment to look up and right and Sansa. Her eyes damp with tears that she blinked away a moment later. “I’m done with it,” she spoke harsher than she had intended. “Let those fools fight and kill themselves over a stupid iron chair that only brings sorrow over whoever sits on it.”

They all sat in silence for a few moments, letting the words that Margaery had spoken sink in. Was she right, when she said that the Iron Throne was not something worth having? Sansa tended to agree. And she knew very well that Littlefinger would wildly disagree, if he would not keep his cards so close to his chest.

“And what about justice?” Sansa asked finally. “You are telling me, you have no desire in making Cersei pay for what she did to you? To your family?”

Margaery chuckled darkly. “Every other person in the seven kingdoms who wants to make Cersei pay chances are someone would beat me to it anyway.”

She looked down at the fabric of her dress and a sad smile played on her lips. “Besides, who decides what’s just anyway?” Margaery paused deliberately. “Maybe Cersei was in the right wanting me dead. My grandmother was responsible for Joffrey’s death, so who’s to say we did not have it coming?”

Sansa did not say anything to it. This was not news to her. What was surprising however was how frankly Margaery offered such a huge secret.

Margaery shrugged. “Everything my grandmother did was to protect her family,” she offered as an explanation. “Not so different from Cersei if you think about it.”

“With the difference that she did the world a favour in ridding it of Joffrey,” Sansa said, an unforgiving hard expression coming over her face.

“All a question of perspective,” Littlefinger pointed out, taking a sip from his cup. 

“I have learned my lesson,” Margaery said firmly. “I have no more ambitions for power struggles or to be queen, if that is what you are worried about…” Her eyes quickly brushed over to Littlefinger, deliberately slow, and then back to Sansa. Or if it is what you were hoping for, Sansa heard the unspoken words.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Sansa replied then. Her head once again raised in an almost belligerent way. “Winterfell is my home. And now that I have it back, I do not intend to ever lose it again, over no one’s ambitions, no matter how great they may be.”

Margaery knew a threat when she heard it, and choose to simply acknowledge  it with a graceful tilt of her head, that almost looked like a curtsey even though she was sitting, holding Sansa’s hard gaze without as much as a blink.

Sansa believed that she understood perfectly, that those words were for Lord Baelish’s benefit, as much as for her own.

“And I stand by what I said,” Sansa went on. “You are welcome here for as long as you want.”

“Thank you.” Margaery smiled gratefully at her. “You are very kind.”

Sansa’s eyebrows shot up and again her lips were quicker than her mind. “I think you spend too much time in King’s Landing. You’re confusing basic human decency with kindness.”

Margaery laughed dearly at that and Sansa felt a smile tuck on her lips. “I suppose you might be right about that.”

Sansa hesitated for a moment before she went on. She did not quite know how to approach what she wanted to tell Margaery. What she needed her to know. If she trusted her with her wellbeing, she at least deserved to have all the information.

“There is something you might want to consider, before you make your decision to stay here,” Sansa began carefully.

How did one start a conversation about an army of the dead. About creatures being a threat that they only had heard of scary stories, that were told to frighten little kids? Would she think she’d gone mad if she told her? Sometimes, Sansa was not completely sure she believed all of it herself.

Margaery knew when to keep quiet and just gave Sansa a questioning look.

Sansa chuckled as she turned around and for a brief moment the girl who’d been in King’s Landing appeared.

“You said you came here looking for safety,” Sansa started out. “And while I’ll do everything in my power to grant you that, I’m afraid you might have chosen the wrong cardinal direction for it.”

Margaery gave her a confused look. “You worry me, Sansa.”

With a sigh, Sansa let her eyes wander over the table loaded up with food.

“The King in the North told us about what looms behind the wall,” Littlefinger chimed in, when she seemed unable to find the right words. “He warned us about the things he saw beyond the wall.”

Margaery still did not seem to understand. “I had heard that the wildlings are in support of your brother,” she asked. “They even say, they fought with him in the battle for Winterfell.”

Sansa made a mental note, to ask Margaery how she was just this very well informed about what had happened prior to her arrival. “They did,” she said then. “And it is not them we need to be worried about.” She paused and took a breath. “He warned us all about White Walkers and that an army of the dead is coming.”

Not unexpectantly, Margaery looked at her in pure disbelieve.

“I know…,” Sansa said with a shake of her head. “And if it was anyone else telling me those stories, I would probably laugh in their face. But Jon is too,” she looked for the right word. “… sober minded for this to be not true.”

Margaery looked at her thoroughly for a while, as if she was carefully searching for a sign in her face that all of this was merely a bad joke.

And then Sansa found herself truly surprised when Margaery started laughing. It bubbled up from her throat and Margaery looked even surprised by it herself. Her laughter was raw as if it had been a very long time since she’d truly laughed out loud. She continued with laugh, and had to place a hand on her chest, to keep from completely losing it.

Littlefinger and Sansa shared a look and she could almost hear him as he looked at her. Now she’s lost it, his eyes seemed to say.

“I’m afraid, the Lady Sansa is not joking,” Littlefinger said slowly.

Another wave of melodic laughter came across Margaery’s lips.

Margaery pressed a hand to her mouth and finally managed to contain herself. “I did not think she was,” she promised, still barely able to calm herself. “I’m sorry,” she spoke one more time.

The hand wandered to her eyes and covered them and the joy from before turned into defeat when she lowered it again. “If I choose to believe what you’re telling me… then I came here looking for security and unknowingly put myself to nearest spot of the next war to come.” She shook her head and looked at Sansa. “And that leaves me nothing but to either cry at it, or to laugh at my stupidity.”

“You could still go back south,” Sansa suggested. “I could set you up with everything for a safe passage.”

Margaery barely considered it at all, before she shook her head. “And go where?” It was all she had to say, and Sansa did not say another word about it.

“May I ask, what exactly the plan is to deal with this threat from the North?” Margaery wondered.

If she was completely honest, Sansa had no idea. Harvesting dragon glass, training every man, woman, boy and girl, trying to get an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen… those were all just details. Not the big great plan that would protect them. And most likely not the answer Margaery was hoping for.

“For now we are on the right side of the wall,” Littlefinger said then. “Those creatures, this army of the dead, whatever you want to call them… they have been around for a long time and did not make it past the wall. If you ask me, there is no reason why that should change.”

Margaery nodded slowly, albeit Sansa could read on her face that she was not satisfied with the answer completely. “Let’s hope you’re right,” she said.

„It’s getting late,“ Sana announced after a little more time. There were about fifty things she still had to sort out, just today. She turned to look at Margaery. “Will you be all right here on your own?”

Margaery nodded. “Of course I will.”

As she and Littlefinger made their way out of her room and walked along the corridors, he went on about daily business as usual. As if the new of Margaery Tyrell’s survival and her presence in Sansa’s chambers was just another point in his duties for the day that he had checked of.

“House Fenn brought the rest of the requested corn this morning,” he informed her. “Now there’s only the supply from House Fisher and House Boggs missing.”

Sansa nodded, although she had barely heard the words. “Very well.” She strode on for a while, unable to hold the thought back that was looming in her mind. “Why do you think she came to Winterfell of all places?”

Littlefinger raised his eyebrows and he considered the question for a moment. “I’d assume she hopes to find safety here. As well as a friend.”

“There are a great number of houses who would have been happy to take the granddaughter of Olenna Tyrell in. A lot of them far further south, and not requiring a trip throughout the entire realm.”

“I think you overestimate the support the Tyrell’s still hold in the realm, after Olenna’s support of Daenerys Targaryen,” he offered her to take into consideration.

“Why did she not go to the dragon queen herself then?” Sansa asked. It would have made sense. Daenerys had been the late Lady Tyrell’s ally.

“What would she have been able to offer to her?” Littlefinger said with a shake of his head. “No gold, no armies. Only a name, and I don’t think that is enough to get in the Dragon Queen’s good graces and ask for her support.”

Sansa pondered over that. Still. Something felt … off? The Margaery Tyrell she remembered, would not have fled to the far other end of the world to hide out.

“What are you thinking?” He asked, leaning forward, looking a little to intrigued for her taste.

Him being around all the time, sometimes made her so used to his presence, she forgot how little she actually trusted him.

“Nothing,” she finally answered him.

She should grant Margaery the benefit of the doubt, she decided. Other than Littlefinger, she had never given her a reason not to trust her.

Sansa felt uneasy about leaving Margaery by herself as she and Littlefinger left her to tend to the daily business. Not because there was anything there that she was worried about leaving Margaery alone with. With Lord Baelish almost constantly around, and coming and going from her solar as he pleased, she had stored anything that held any informational or personal value to her in a location that she deemed safer. It was the dire expression from Margaery’s face that worried her. And leaving her alone with just her thoughts seemed, maybe not dangerous, but also not well advised.

For remains of their conversation, Margaery had remained rather quiet, seemingly lost in thought. Sansa could not blame her. Even without her new knowledge of the threat from the North, there had to be a million things on her mind. Sansa knew the feeling of questioning every decision you had made that had brought you to a certain point, where turning back did not seem to be much of an option anymore. Especially when she thought that for once she was able to put all struggle and fighting behind herself.

And thoughts and especially worries could be a dangerous thing.

When Sansa returned to her solar a little after noon, she found Margaery sitting by the window, the barricade opened and looking outside.

Sansa wrapped her arms around herself in the cool that greeted her and approached Margaery.

“I would not have thought that a girl born in the south would be quite this eager for fresh air,” she said and sat down on her desk, putting a stack of papers in front of her.

Margaery turned her head and smiled. “I’m not. This bloody cold is actually driving me crazy.” She stood up and closed the wooden sheds, pulling the large scarf tighter around her figure. “But you can only stare at the wall and at the fire for so long before you get bored.” She sat down opposite to Sansa at the desk, her smile firmly in place, but her eyes so distracted as if she was still lost in thought.

Sansa nodded in understanding. “You are welcome to help yourself to any of the books,” she suggested gesturing to the shelve at the other end of the room. “Or the sewing kit.” Her eyes went to the small basket with supplies she had not touched in weeks.

“Thank you,” Margaery said. “I absolutely will. I did not want to just overstretch your hospitality by just helping myself.”

Sansa nodded. “Of course, go ahead. It is not a problem.”

For a moment it looked like Margaery wanted to stand up and go get something that would keep her busy, she lowered the hands that were supposed to push her up from the chair a moment later.

“Can I ask you something?” she carefully said.

Sansa looked up from the paper in front of her, blinking, a little curious at the certain tone that Margaery used. “What is it?”

“I don’t want to be imprudent, but…” her smile went a little apologetic. “I was quite surprised to see Lord Baelish move quite so freely around in your chambers this here this morning… You and him-“

Margaery did not finish the sentence out of a sense of decency, but she did not have to in order to understand perfectly what she was referring to. She was not the first and not the last to make that very wrong assumption. The only difference was that she simply asked about it and did not whisper around her back, like other people seemed to enjoy quite so much.

“We’re not,” Sansa stated clearly, even a little coldly.

Margaery nodded quickly. “I’m sorry if the question was too indiscreet.”

It certainly was, Sansa thought to herself. And Margaery had known that even before she had asked it. But she found that she did not care for that. In fact she found herself appreciating the openness.

“I’d rather have you asking indiscreet question than ever assuming anything that is not true.” No matter how much he wants it to be, she added in thought.

Margaery looked considerate and then nodded. “I’m glad,” she said and Sansa was not sure, if she was referring to her openness or the fact that Lord Baelish and her were not any closer.

Sansa leaned back in her chair and pushed the papers away from her. Even if she had been able to properly concentrate, what did she know about making a castle less impregnable? Nothing to very little.

“Tell me about King’s Landing,” Sansa then asked out of the blue.

Margaery looked up from the stitching, she had started with in surprise, confused for a moment before she lowered it. “What would you like to hear?”

Sansa just merely shrugged. “I don’t know. Something about after I left.” Something to take my mind off all that I have to worry about here, she meant.

Margaery considered for a while what might be appropriate, something that would be a fitting conversation topic.

“What kind of King was Tommen?” Sansa then asked, before Margaery could come up with something on her own.

She only remembered him as this young innocent boy. It was hard to imagine him as a King, sitting on the iron throne.

Again Margaery carefully considered her words. “He was a kind King,” she then said. “He was eager to do the right thing. Things that would be good for the people in his realm.”

“Sounds like quite the opposite of Joffrey,” Sansa noted.

Margaery smiled. “In almost every way.” She paused again. “Under different circumstances he could have done great good for the realm.”

Sansa noted that there was more she wanted to say but didn’t. And she did not push for it. It was Margaery’s right to have conflicted feelings about him. He had been her husband, but he had also been a Lannister. And he had not been able to protect her from Cersei, even if he was the King.

“Did you love him?” Sansa knew the question was indiscreet, but she figured, Margaery had opened that door herself, when she had asked about Littlefinger.

“He was a lot easier to love than Joffrey,” Margaery offered vaguely. “But in the end, it all turned for the worse before I had a chance to really learn to love him.”

“I only remember him as this sweet innocent boy,” Sansa said with a sentimental smile. “Who was obsessed with his cat.”

“Ugh, that bloody cat,” Margaery groaned in annoyance. 

Sansa’s smile grew. “Don’t tell you didn’t like Ser Pounce! He was the sweetest animal!”

“I had power struggles with that cat, which were almost as bad as the ones I had with Cersei,” Margaery sighed dramatically. “Do you know that Ser Pounce had a steady spot at the table in Tommen’s chambers?” She rolled her eyes. “And may the gods have mercy of anyone whomever dared to sit there!”

Sansa continued to smile. “So Tommen would not allow anyone to sit there?”

Margaery huffed. “The damn cat did a pretty good job of defending it himself. Two of my best dresses were ruined by that animal. Hear us roar indeed.” She said dryly. “I think that only thing that stopped me from poisoning that damn creature was that he seemed to hate Cersei even more than I did.”

Sansa laughed dearly at that. And found that it had been too long, since she had. Not like this. Not genuinely. Not because she found something amusing or funny. Most of the time she did, when it was expected of her, and a lot of times not even then.

“I’m glad that my past misery brings you quite so much amusement,” Margaery said in a sore tone, but the smile she wore showed that she did not mean it. 

“Please forgive me,” Sansa managed to keep up a small smile, that had a hint of sadness in it. “There haven’t been too many reasons for laughter lately.”

“That’s something we ought to change,” Margaery said and it sounded like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments, Kudos and/or subscribed. It makes me very happy to see you're enjoying my story.  
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. More to come next week!  
> Please take a short moment and let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter Three

Opening her eyes did not make a difference. The black around her engulfed her like a cloak she could not escape from. She didn’t know if something had caused her to lose her eyesight or if she simply was in a dark environment. Not that she had much chance to ponder about it; on the most forefront of her mind was the pain she felt in her complete body. She didn’t feel specific points that caused this agony. She could not point out single injuries, only misery and pain engulfing her entire momentary existence.

Margaery shrieked awake and breathed heavily. Still not quite awake and caught somewhere between dream and reality she followed the one instinct she could make out, which was to escape the dark. She toppled over to the window, pulled the cover aside and took a deep breath of the cold air that flooded the room, as she refocused her eyes on the bright snow outside. When she had been on the ship, this had been almost a nightly ritual for her. Escaping from the warmth of her sleeping spot inside the hull, to the outer deck where it was windy and cold, but where a small light was kept for the deck-hand on watch.

A lot of times these nightmares had pulled her from her dreams. It was something that had started shortly after the wildfire, when she had been in a condition where she was no longer sure if the memories she held for it where reality or imagination. One seemed to blend into the other.

It had seemed to cease for the first couple of days in Winterfell and she had hoped that she had put it behind herself by being in a safe environment, but apparently she had no such luck, she had merely been granted a break.

Her head knew quickly after waking up fully that the threat and the pain were not real, but her body needed some time to catch up. Even after a good ten minutes, her hands were still shaking slightly. She hated it. Hated feeling so weak. She’d always been masterful at keeping her emotions at bay, in the most extraordinary situations, and now a little darkness was enough to turn her into a nervous wreck.

When the initial anxiety settled down after a while, it was always replaced by an equally strong emotion.  In the past few weeks that had been exhaustion, as well as a general devastation. Maybe she had even pitied herself, because she felt so miserable and weak.

Here in Winterfell, she found the aftermath of this anxiety a bit different. For the first time, Margaery felt something like rage that rose in her chest. Rage and anger for the people to blame for all of this, who were responsible. Most of all at the thought of Cersei.

It was all so overwhelming it almost took her breath away.

In the past few weeks she had been satisfied with the thought that even though Cersei had prevailed her, she had not been able to do so without losing the thing she loved most in the world - all of her children were dead. It was a small satisfaction for Margaery, but it at least seemed like a small piece of redeeming justice, after the hurt and pain Cersei had brought on children and parents all over Westeros.

She had to tell herself, that this was all the justice she could hope for and that she had to be content with it, simply accept Cersei’s victory and make the most of what she had left of her life. Anything else would have taken too much strength. Especially feeling something like hatred fed off vital energy, and during her travels here, Margaery had to focus her vigour on other things. On her way of surviving and on her way to Winterfell, she had not had any left to even consider a wish and the prospect of vengeance. She had been focused on arriving. On where she would sleep the next day, or on how much distance she could get behind herself before the night dawned.

Only when her fingers grew cold and stiff from the cold, and the cool air began to creep through her night gown, Margaery let the heavy material of the Gobelin drop back over the window, to find herself once again engulfed by darkness. It was not as bad as before, because her mind was fully awake and could rationalize the difference between the situation in the past and the present. Yet still, there was a sort of uneasiness that she could not get rid of. And she found the thought of going back to sleep in this dark room terribly unbearable. The panic she had felt only minutes ago was still too fresh in her mind and only the memory of it and the chance of it happening again, was enough to make her hands shake again.

In the wake of a new wave of fear, she impulsively took the candle that stood unlit on her vanity and rushed to the door that separated hers from Sansa’s chamber. Her own chamber did not have a fire where she could have lit her candle, as the hot springs that ran through the walls of Winterfell made in unnecessary. It was pleasant of course, but right now very inconvenient. But for sure in the rooms of the Lady of Winterfell a fire would be maintained throughout the night.

Immediately when she softly and quietly opened the heavy door, the soft red light of an open fire shone toward her and lit up the dark of her own room. Margaery could feel her heart slow at leaving the darkness behind.

Only to have it pick up again when she found that Sansa was not, as she had expected her to be, sleeping deeply, but instead was sitting in a chair by the window reading.

Sansa lowered the book in her hands, and looked at her half expectantly, half in surprise.

Instantly Margaery painted a smile onto her face, taking a daring step in Sansa’s direction. “I wasn’t expecting you to be awake.”

Sansa did not react to the assumption, merely observed Margaery in silence for several seconds. It was a simple, but it was effective. It was on Margaery to explain why she was in here in the middle of the night, as she had barged in. Not on Sansa to explain what she did in the privacy of her own room. Margaery almost felt a little impressed with her. The Sansa she used to know, would have babbled away with an explanation.

Casually, her smile still firmly in place, she walked over to where Sansa was sitting and put her hands on the backrest of a big chair, using the object strategically as a way of shielding herself from Sansa’s alert eyes.

“I must apologize for intruding on you like this,” Margaery said. “I would have knocked, but I was sure I’d disturb your sleep.”

Sansa’s look only softened marginally, but she closed the book she was holding and placed it on the table in front of her. “And what is it that brings you here?”

Margaery only hesitated for a moment. “I was looking for a light for my candle,” she said truthfully and held up the stick in her hand pointedly.

Sansa’s expression still held some doubt, but she nodded and indicated to the fire with a movement with her head. “Suit yourself, then.”

Margaery nodded smiling and turned towards the fire. All too aware of Sansa’s attentive eyes still following her every movement. Halfway confident that the long and loose night gown hid everything that wanted to keep hidden, Margaery went to the fireplace and lit her candle on the flame.

Holding the candle in front of herself, Margaery walked back towards the door to her own chambers. “Thank you, Sansa. And again, my apologies for barging in here.”

“It’s quite alright,” Sansa assured, the expression on her face still considerably distant. “I would not want you to be uncomfortable.” She then managed a little smile. “Good night, Margaery.”

Margaery smiled back and had already halfway disappeared behind the door. “Good night, Sansa.”

When she returned to her own room, she put the burning candle on her nightstand, and slipped back between the covers that still held some remaining warmth.

The awkwardness, near embarrassment she had felt over the situation with Sansa gladly vanished. Not only was she too exhausted to agonize over it, the relief of not having to return to a dark chamber was just too grand.

She was tired to the bone, but did not even bother to try and get some more sleep, since she knew the Gods didn’t deign her that anyway. The all-embracing fear that she could wake up in the dark one more time, still loomed under the surface and kept her awake. Her eyes were focused on the candle and she watched as it burned down. Where there had been fear and haunting memories before, her mind was now comfortably empty as she watched the small light flicker and throw shadows against the wall. Only with the rooster’s first call in the morning did she tare her eyes away from it again.

When she swung her legs out of bed and stripped herself of her night clothes, she did not feel very rested, but at least a little more at peace than hours ago. She began her morning wash with the bowl of water which stood on the side table. The cold water helped her to gather her thoughts and ban any of the dark ones which were still looming in the back of her mind. In cleaning herself, she was thorough, but she did not bother too long with it. For one because the water was almost unpleasantly cold, but also because every second more increased the chance of pondering over her damaged skin and body, and she felt like she had wasted too much of her lifetime on that already. The image was burned into her mind.

Margaery quickly pulled her smallclothes on. This was certainly not the time for vanities. Spare the power of your mind for what is important right now, a voice in her head told her. A voice that sounded unsurprisingly a lot like her grandmother.

Quickly Margaery pulled the nearest dress from the trunk. Sansa had provided her with a whole collection of dresses. None of them fancy, at least not by a King’s Landing standard, rather simple really. But the material was fine, so that Margaery could guess that they originally were not deemed for the simple handmaiden she pretended to be. And they were definitely too short to ever belong to Sansa. Maybe leftovers from the late Lady Stark? Or from the late Lady Bolton? Not that she cared enough to ask. She was not at all superstitious and didn’t believe that clothes could hold something as bad luck.

Except maybe for one piece of clothing. A curse lay on her lips as she tried to close the corset and found it considerably tight - maybe even a little tighter than yesterday? - around her midsection. Yet she only pulled firmer, until her waist looked nearly as thin as it had always looked. The stretched strings tore into her skin, a discomfort that would grow painful by night time, but she had learned to ignore it and slipped into her dress. She lay a furry shawl around herself; to protect her from the cold was only one of the purposes it served.

She had learned to ignore almost everything about this condition. Starting from the discomforts in the earlier days to the movements that had started quite recently. It was most likely anything but natural or right, to act the way she was acting. For a mother, even an expectant one, shouldn’t there have been some kind of joyful anticipation? Before she had thought that loving your child, even in the womb, was just something that happened, whether you wanted it or not. Yet, Margaery did not feel a shred of affection, only a sense of annoyance, sometimes even loathing. For sure it was not right of her to feel in such a way about her own flesh and blood, but that was really the point wasn’t it? It was not only her blood, not only Tyrell blood.

Logic told her of course that this was not right, that this should not matter. That it was wrong, almost unnatural to feel so much aversion against a child that had not even been born yet. There were days when she felt bad for not managing a single positive regard towards it, but as much as she tried she could not help it. From the very beginning she had not wanted it. From the moment, she had realized that her missing monthly blood was more than just a reaction of her body to all that she had endured, when she had been somewhere between King’s Landing and Maidenpool, her sole thought had been that she did not want it. Could not for the life of her. Could especially not bring herself to feel anything that was positive. She had only wished for it to go away. Had done everything in her power to make it go away, but it turned out that the child was strong. As to be expected, since not even the trauma of the wildfire was enough to cause a miscarriage, two doses of moon tea had no effect either. She had been told that it was most likely already too far along for it.

She had to be at around five months by now. She knew that she could not keep it a secret for very much longer. Soon even the corset wouldn’t be able to conceal much anymore. But not telling anyone about it yet was essential for her own protection she told herself. Especially with Lord Baelish here. Margaery on her own had to be a pretty worthless token to him, no more influence, no more armies, no more gold. Merely a name and a former title. Margaery pregnant with the last King’s heir was a completely different thing. There was no way of anticipating what he would do.

In the end what was maybe her greatest motivation to quite literally keep her condition under wraps was that she would not have to deal with it herself as long as nobody else knew. Facing all those conflicting emotions would be so very straining. She was only slowly starting to regain some of strength that she had lost, by far not enough yet to ponder over her godforsaken condition and what to do about it. What it would mean. If it meant something to her at all. Already a lot deeper entangled in those thoughts than she liked, she forcefully tore herself away from thinking about it.

As she pushed the thoughts from her mind, she went on to coif her hair, which she really did not bother a great time with anymore. She had been in Winterfell for almost a week now and had worn the same style almost every day. Two small braids on each side that held the curls from her face secured safely at the back of her head with a single pin. It was true what she had told Sansa. Over all that had changed so drastically in her appearance, she really missed her hair the most. A fancy updo was more than just a vanity. It was for one a status symbol, but at the same time so much more. Even the process of getting it done by her handmaid in the morning had been a ritual. One for beauty as well as a social one.

Her fingertips briefly brushed over the tips of her hair before she quickly pulled the hand away. Margaery straightened her shoulder and tightened the shawl around her. After everything she would not be the foolish little girl who cried over losing a few inches of hair.

With a knock, she announced herself in Sansa’s chambers, where she found Sansa sitting in front of her vanity. She was as usual already fully dressed, the only signs that she was not quite ready for the day were the missing fur around her shoulders and her hair which was still in the tight braid Margaery had fitted her with the previous night. A thing for the night Margaery had suggested after several mornings of frustrating work to untangle Sansa’s long strands.

“Good morning,” Margaery greeted with a smile.

“Good morning.” Sansa tried to smile, but it did not even come close to reaching her eyes.

“I hope you had a good night’s rest?” Margaery fingers had already reached out and started to untie the braid as she spoke.

“Well enough,” Sansa replied simply. The tiredness in her eyes, however, told a different story, as did the fact that she had seen that she had been up reading well into the night. But Margaery knew better than to question this. Sansa would tell her when she wanted to talk about it. Margaery herself had not gotten nearly enough sleep to do anymore talking than was absolutely necessary. She had learned to enjoy silence.

Slowly she started loosening the big three strands of the braid and ran her fingers through the long soft waves. It was such beautiful hair, that was only highlighted by Sansa’s dark clothing and her fair skin. Carefully she drew her hands up until she reached the hairline in the nape, she sunk her fingers into the long strands and started to loosen the hair right at the scalp. It was an action that Sansa seemed to endure more than anything, so Margaery kept it to the necessary before she reached for the brush and started running it through the hair.

They both remained silent through the process of brushing, braiding and pinning, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. More one where they both simultaneously realized that not talking was preferred by either of them right now.

Margaery finished the work on Sansa’s hair and she nodded, satisfied with the job she had done. Her smile becoming a little bit more genuine again. “There,” she said, taking a step back and then she flexed and unflexed her fingers.

Sansa turned her head and took a look at herself in the mirror, her hand reaching up to feel the tight and delicate braids Margaery had worked into a bun.

“Thank you,” Sansa said with a smile. “It looks lovely, as always.”

It was a farce, and they both knew it. Sansa was very well capable of doing it all herself. Maybe even better and certainly faster than Margaery was able to. Her fingers were stiff and lacked sensibility in places from where the scars were particular bad. Part of Margaery wondered why Sansa allowed her to do keep up this routine in the morning at all. Was it simply that she was following Lord Baelish’s advice? Was it a sense of pity? A way of keeping her from going crazy, as she sat around contained in the same four walls almost all day long? Or simply a need for human contact that she could not express in any other way?

This Lady of Winterfell was intriguing to her. Next to that almost constant aura of distant authority, there were so many more layers, of which Margaery was almost sure she had not seen even half. There was of course still a sense of vulnerability, even though Sansa put a lot of effort into not letting it show. It only came out in small moments. When she thought she was alone or when her emotions got the better of her. Then there were those brief glimpses of the girl Margaery had met all those years ago. Margaery could tell that Sansa had grown very strong and smart. Something she had probably always had within her, but had only now the chance to blossom in the right way.

Margaery sincerely wished that Sansa would tell her the whole story. More than only the tales which were told throughout the kingdoms. She wished she knew those moments that had defined Sansa. And it was not like so many other times where she had bothered to look behind someone’s façade in order to read them better, to further their own ambitions. The young woman sitting in front of her was nothing less than fascinating.

Quite simply she wanted to be her friend. She missed having friends, confidants. People she could talk to about things that weren’t a life or death matter. In all of this, she missed simply acting like her own age. And sometimes, rarely, but still, sometimes, she got a sense that Sansa had the same wish. Especially since she had been robbed of simply being young so early.

Margaery knew that all of this was not really in the cards for either of them. These were simply not times where you roamed around, laughing, giggling and gossiping. It hadn’t been for quite some time. Winter was almost here and other things were important.

When they moved to the solar for breakfast, as always the table was already loaded up and Lord Baelish was already there. Margarey greeted him friendly, but curtly. It had grown to be a ritual for them to share breakfast between the three of them, one she could not say she really cared for or even particularly enjoyed, but she figured seeing him once a day was effective in her intent to keep an eye on him.

 “Lady Margaery, you look very well. I hope you had a good night’s rest?”

Margaery nodded and gave him a subdued version of her charming smile. “I did, thank you Lord Baelish.”

She wondered if her eyes gave away just how little sleep she had had. He lived for small details like that.

She mostly tuned herself out of the conversation between him and Sansa that was going on through the rest of their shared meal. From what she gathered, it was mostly about logistics and stocking up for Winter. About assumed weak points in Winterfell and what could be done about keeping the farmers in the closer environment set up for the winter. Nothing where she could have had much of an input anyway. At least not without straining her mind, more than she cared for this morning.

She was glad when Lord Baelish left them alone sooner rather than later this morning. Bidding them farewell with the explanation that he would ride to Wintertown in order to look at the situation there himself.

“You are quiet this morning,” Sansa noted with a side look to Margaery after he had left.

Margaery did not feel as caught as she ought to under different circumstances. She had not even tried to take part in the conversation.

She looked at Sansa, with a clear expression. “I know better than to weigh in on matters that I have no knowledge about,” she replied.

“Not just during breakfast,” Sansa pointed out. “You hardly spoke ten words to me all morning.”

Margaery’s eyes were looking into space for a moment. She knew that it was true, but had not thought that it had bothered Sansa. “I’m sorry,” she apologized softly. “I hope you are aware that I’m better company usually.”

“I was not suggesting that you are bad company,” Sansa said. “I just pointed out that you were quiet.”

Margaery felt tired. More so than she had since she arrived at Winterfell.

“Is there something on your mind?” Sansa asked carefully.

Margaery hesitated, her eyes lowered onto the plate in front of her and she considered carefully if she should speak about it. Let alone if she could. It would have been so very easy just to avoid an answer with a couple of polite evading phrases. The idea of doing that was all to alluring.

“A lot of things,” Margaery answered still vaguely. “I probably have too much time on my hands at the moment.”

“Coming to a rest can have that effect on you,” Sansa recognized.

Margaery could have broken off the conversation right there. It would have been very simple to leave it at that, because frankly she did not know if she could go deeper. But had she not just thought about how much she missed having friends in her life? People she could confide in and trust? If she wanted Sansa’s friendship, making herself vulnerable to her would maybe be a first step. Sometimes you need to advance some debt, in order to receive gold.

“I think I owe you an explanation for last night,” Margaery offered quietly. “I thought about how it must have looked to you. I promise you, I was not in there to impose on you privacy or yourself in any way.“

Sansa looked at her for a long moment, maybe considering if she should believe the words and trust their sincerity. “I did not think you were,” she said then.

“You’re too kind.” Margaery’s eyes were drawn to the empty cup in her hands which she rolled between them and again a silence spread over them. Another moment passed and Margaery heard herself speaking before she had even made the conscious decision if she should really share any more of this with Sansa.

“I can’t endure the dark,” Margaery said. It was the first time she spoke about this weakness of hers, and her voice almost seemed to be shaking.

Sansa’s look on her did not falter, but Margaery still avoided meeting her eyes again. There was a soft smile planted on her face that was supposed to cover the vulnerability she felt and it did not falter as she continued speaking.

“Last night I woke up in the middle of the night, it was dark and I was terrified. It felt so real. It felt like I was back there, buried in the ruins, hurting all over.” Her voice broke off against her will and she cleared her throat before she continued. Even just talking about it, she could feel a little bit of the panic from last night tightening up her chest. “In the dark I cannot make out the difference. I cannot tell where I am and the reality seems like a dream.”

Sansa remained silent, but Margaery could tell that she was still looking at her.

“When I came into your chambers, I had barely gotten over the feeling and could only think that I needed to get out of the dark,” Margaery told her, only briefly drifting up to meet Sansa’s eyes, as her hands eagerly continued to play with the cup.

She hesitated then for the first time. Exposing quite so much of herself to somebody else did not come as easy to her as it once had. Most likely an effect of having only herself to rely on in the past few months. She continued anyway.

“I also do not sleep very well afterwards,” Margaery went on. “The first couple of nights here I slept like the dead, so deeply that I wasn’t even sure I had moved much throughout the night.”

“What has changed?” Sansa asked, her eyes showing that she had an idea.

“I dream,” Margaery told her. “It stopped for a while, but now the dreams are back and I don’t recall ever having quite so viable ones.”

“Nightmares?” Sansa guessed.

“Sometimes,” Margaery affirmed. “I have nightmares about being back in the Sept of Baelor. Sometimes I’m  watching my family burn, sometimes I feel the fire on my own skin.” Her hand brushed up and down across her arm as if there will still flames she had to put out in this moment.

Sansa looked at her with compassion, but there was also curiosity. “What exactly happened that day in the sept?” she wanted to know.

Margaery’s retelling of the events held it rather simple. She told her about how Cersei was supposed to be put on trial and how she had figured something was clearly wrong when Cersei did not appear for her own trial.

“I don’t even remember what I said or what anyone else said. It’s mostly the feeling that comes with it. The powerlessness. The panic. The anger,” Margaery said with a shake of her head. For the life of her she could not remember the last words she had spoken to her father or to her brother. She just remembered that sense of dooming dread and then her world had gone dark.

Sansa nodded silently at that.

Margaery closed her eyes. “After that, I only recall darkness and agony,” she said with a shake of her head. “I must have been buried in the ruins.”

“It is understandable that memories like this would keep you up at night and cause you nightmares.” Sansa voice was soft and offered some comfort.

Margaery continued talking. “Sometimes it’s not the nightmares to keep me awake,” she admitted. “Sometimes it’s the pleasant dreams. Being home, in Highgarden. Talking with Loras, and he’s being snarky with me. We share wine and we laugh. I talk to my grandmother and hug my father.”

It was so very hard even talking about them.

“Sometimes, even when I’m awake, I forget that they are gone. And when I remember …” she did not finish the sentence, but only shook her head quickly. “I cannot dwell on these thoughts. Or I will lose my mind.”

The nice dreams were worse than the nightmares. She still remembered vividly how desperate those happy dreams had made her feel, during the early time of her recovery. How she would wake up. In a strangers bed, all on her own, and horribly injured. Silent sobs had escaped her every time she was pulled from the comfort of a dream, back into this harsh reality. It was those small moments at night, when Margaery had almost given in to her misery completely and wished for it all to be over. She had cursed the gods for keeping her alive like this. And then, always right before the tears had threatened to spill she caught herself. Promising herself that with all that Cersei had taken from her and the pain she had caused her, she would not have the triumph of having her tears.

“Pleasant memories make the grief even worse,” Sansa acknowledged with a nod. “I get that.”

Of course she does, Margaery thought. She has lost just as much as me. If not more.

Margaery smiled at her then with a sense of gratitude. “Thank you for listening,” she said. “I was always surrounded by people I loved, that I could share my thoughts, joys and sorrows with. Not just the superficial conversations at court where you’d say something in pretty words to hide an ugly topic. Real conversations with friends. And I very much appreciate you listening to me just now.”

And maybe one day she would be able to repay the favour of simply being there and listening.

Sansa nodded. “Of course.”

Margaery paused, forming her next words very carefully. “We were close friends once, Sansa, and I still consider you a friend. Maybe the only one in this world I have left.” She paused. “I realize that we cannot just pick up where we left off, but I do hope that our friendship will grow.”

Sansa took the words in and seemed to consider them carefully. If Margaery dared to say so, she did not seem completely unintrigued. Just still very guarded.

“Tell me about them,” Sansa finally said. “About your friends.”

Margaery smiled, a hint of sadness within it. It hurt thinking about them, because then she’d have to acknowledge that they were all gone.

“Well, where should I start? For one there was Esabel… She came into my group of ladies shortly after Tommen and I were wed. I think she first started to seek my company for not completely sincere reasons.”

Sansa looked at her questioningly, but did not interrupt her with questions.

“She had fallen terribly for Loras and thought that being in my company might bring her closer to him.” Margaery chuckled lowly. “That poor fool. She might as well fallen for a rock, she would have had better chances there.”

“Did he not return her affections?”

Margaery bit her lip and looked at Sansa through her lashes, amusement appearing on her face. Was it possible? Did Sansa really have no idea about Loras’ preference? He had been incarcerated because of it, as well as herself to an extent. She’d expected gossip like that to even reach the North.

Margaery swallowed the term of endearment she had on her lips over Sansa’s ignorance.  “How do I put this? …Sansa, Loras was not at all interested in the charms that girls have to offer.”

Sansa stared at her in lack of understanding and it took a fair amount of time until realization dawned on her face. Her expression showed something like surprise for the blink of an eye as she processed what Margaery had just told her.

“Most of us felt too bad for Esabel to tell her the truth,” Margaery went on. “It wasn’t until Elinor arrived from Highgarden. She put a quick end to that doomed infatuation by pairing her up with someone who did return her affections.”

“That was a good thing to do.”

“Do you remember my cousin Elinor?” Margaery’s thoughts had travelled on from Esabel and her ill-fated affection and she did not wait for an answer from Sansa.  “She probably was by far the kindest and carefree person I ever met. Even when things turned for the worse in the Red Keep she’d always find a way to make me smile.”

A grin spread over Margaery’s face. “You would have loved her impression of Cersei.” Margaery took the cup and held it in a way Cersei would handle a goblet of wine and did the best impression of Cersei she could muster. “’Why do I find you so very attractive? Could it be that we are related?’”

A genuine laugh escaped Sansa and she pressed her hand against her mouth, seemingly almost surprised at the sound as it left her lips. After a moment she managed to regain her composure to a suppressed grin.

Laughing herself now, Margaery put her cup back on the table. “See, if I my poor re-enactment has you laughing, Ellinor would have had you in stitches.” Despite the funny and cheerful memory, a more sombre expression returned to her face. “She was one of the best and most loyal people I have ever known.”

The smile on Sansa’s face died as well and she looked at her full of compassion. “You miss her.”

“Yes,” Margaery said, looking down at the table. “Her. Them. Everyone.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She had said those words to her a couple of days ago already and still they did not lose any of their effect. Margaery met Sansa’s eyes and involuntarily tears welled up in them. Someone acknowledging and feeling for her felt more genuine than anything she had been told in a long time, and was something that she had not even granted herself.

“Thank you,” Margaery said in a breathy voice, but was quick to get a hold of herself, grieving over loved ones she’d lost would not bring them back, it would only make her miserable. “I’m afraid this conversation has turned a bit more gruesome as appropriate of so early in the morning.” Margaery put a smile on her face and straightened her back.

“Yes, perhaps.”

They sat for a moment in silence. “I’m sorry,” Margaery finally said. “I hope I did not perish your mood.”

Sansa shook her head and gave Margaery a soft smile. “These days I’m afraid laughter and tears don’t go independently of one another anymore.”

To Margaery that statement felt as sad as it was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who subscriped, offered feedback and gave Kudos, you people keep me motivated!  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well and am very curious to hear your thoughts!


	4. Chapter Four

When her days had started becoming quite so long, Sansa didn’t know. It had snuck up on her. Every day there were new problems that seemed to appear out of nowhere when the first ones still remained. The less hours of light there where in each day, the longer her working hours became. It was a close to midnight when she returned to her chamber and unclasped the cloak from her shoulders. She rolled her shoulders, her muscles tense, as if she was carrying all of the problems quite literally on them. She took a deep breath.

She was not one to shy away from work. Quite the opposite. She thrived with challenges and enjoyed finding solutions, but lately there were just so many more problems that seemed to appear on every corner. Sansa was as usual completely exhausted, but she knew that she would not be able to find sleep quite yet with all of these issues drawing circles inside her head. The prospect of yet another night tossing and turning or spent reading, because her mind would refuse to silence seemed so very dire, it made her even less prone to slip between her covers.

When her eyes fell to the door that lead to Margaery’s room she hesitated only for a moment. There was still light shining through the bottom crack on the door, and while she knew that this was not necessarily an indicator that Margaery would still be awake, Sansa decided to take her chances anyway. A friendly face after all the serious conversation she had had throughout the evening would maybe help her ease her mind enough so she’d be able to sleep.

Another factor was that she felt bad for leaving Margaery to her own resolves throughout yet another day. Sansa had not seen her since breakfast and that had been cut short with the surprise arrival of Lord and the new Lady Cerwyn. It was evident that those long days Margaery spent all on her own, were not only terribly boring, but also weighing on her mood. More than that she seemed to grow more and more restless. Sansa felt she at least owed it to her guest to see if she was well and to wish her a good night.

She knocked softly on the door and was relieved to hear Margaery’s soft call for her to come in.

Margaery was already in bed, the covers drawn tightly over her chest. Her hair hung loosely into her face and a candle on the nightstand lit the room enough for the book she was holding in her hands.

The Lay of the Sorrows.

Sansa must have read the book three times already. It was a very sinister read, but it was far more fitting her mood most days than any of the romantic tales she had so much enjoyed in the past. Ever since her betrothal to Ramsay she could not bring herself to get through much more than a couple of pages in any of them. They felt too cheesy. Too far from real life. Something she could not endure or want to bother with for more than a couple of pages.

It was not like she had maybe not completely resigned on the idea love and marriage, but she had been considerably disenchanted. Those romance tales were usually quite too cheesy and overly-dramatic for her taste. Should she ever come to the point where she would consider marriage again, which would not be for quite some time, for sure it would merely be for practical reasons than for any of those childish reasons the silly girls in the books had.

“I just wanted to wish you a good night,” she told Margaery.

Margaery smiled. “Thank you. To you as well.”

“I hope Brienne was a good company,” Sansa said apologetic. “I’m sorry, I could not join the two of you for dinner. Our visitors kept me busy.”

“Please don’t worry about it,” Margaery said with a shake of her head. “I hope your meeting with House Cerwyn went well?”

Sansa sighed and rolled her eyes. “Sometimes even I forget how hard headed those northern Lords can be.” He had come to introduce his new wife formally. But more than anything, Lord Cerwyn had seemed annoyed that it was she who’d received them instead of Jon. Like it was offending to him to merely get to talk with the Lady of Winterfell instead the King in the North. “He started negotiating about the amount of supplies he would share with us. He acted positively like I wanted to steal from him or disown him, when I asked for the same share all the northern houses gave.”

“I suppose with winter everyone is starting to look out for themselves more than for thy neighbour,” Margaery considered. “It is only human nature.”

Sansa sighed and nodded. She knew it was true. She just wanted it to be different. The initial thrill that came with acting in Jon’s place had worn off way too quickly. At first she had gladly listened to every complaint or suggestion. Had carefully considered each and every one of them and had just as carefully made a decision then. By now, it felt like she was repeating the same words over and over again and yet no one seemed to listen or learn from them. Maybe not even she herself.

“I suppose you’re right,” she acknowledged finally. “But that does not help any of us in Winter.”

Or in the worst war any of us have ever seen.

“You have a lot to burden,” Margaery recognized quietly.

Sansa did not say anything to it. She did not affirm it or deny it. Mainly because she was not quite so sure herself, if that was what she felt. Was it a burden? She enjoyed being in charge as much as she had started to be fed up with it. There were days where she felt like she was born to do this, and others were she already felt weary of it before even leaving her bed.

Today had been the later. The lack of sleep in the past couple of weeks were draining her strength, and that caused her to start her days not quite as optimistic as she wanted to. Which really ended up running throughout her day like a golden thread. The only brief exception in this was the way too short moments she spent with Margaery. She had been reluctant to share too much of what bothered and worried her with Margaery, but she was growing more comfortable in doing so. Not only was it good to have an input besides Littlefinger’s, but what Sansa especially enjoyed was conversations with Margaery that were not about Winterfell or any of her responsibilities. These kinds of conversations actually managed to lift her mood, and helped her to distract herself from her mind running circles around her duties and the heavy burden that Winterfell and the North represented.

And tonight was a night where she needed distraction. “I suppose I could not interest you in a nightcap of wine?” she suggested.

Margaery’s eyebrow raised in surprise at the proposition. Considering the late hour, and the fact that Margaery was already in bed, Sansa suddenly realized how very inappropriate her suggestions was.

“Of course I understand if you’d rather be on your own, and read,” she quickly backtracked.

She understood it very well. Most nights that was how she felt.

To her relief however, Margaery did not seem to consider it all that inappropriate. With a smile she put the book in her hands aside. “The light is getting too weak for any kind of reading anyway. And a glass of wine ought to help me sleep.”

Only sometimes, Sansa thought solemnly.

She knew from experience that wine only occasionally had the desired effect of numbing the mind enough to make one sleepy. Other times, it seemed to make her more awake and the thoughts on her mind even heavier.

She did not tell her that. She hoped for Margaery that it would make her tired. She had been here for almost two weeks now, but the exhaustion was still clearly evident in her face. In each of her movements. In the way she spoke and the way she behaved. The Margaery she remembered from a couple of years back had an easiness to her step. A lightness in her words and in her eyes. The woman sitting in front of her now did a good job in trying to be like that, trying to act like she was the same person she had been, but did not seem to quite reach it. Sansa knew all too well that that was what happened when the exhaustion reached deeper than only being a physical.

Margaery slipped her feet out of bed and at the same time pulled  the shawl around her shoulders tightly closed. “The wine might also help with the cold,” she said sounding a little frustrated.

Also not always, Sansa thought, but again did not say it. Instead when she arrived in her room, she stopped at her bed and took one of the particular warm furs that lay on the foot end. She handed it to Margaery after she had sat down.

“Until the warmth of the wine reaches you,” she said with a small smile.

Margaery leaned back in her chair, spreading the fur over her legs, and thanked her.

Sansa filled two glasses and handed one to Margaery before sitting down across from her.

“Should we toast?” Margaery asked, a mischievous smile on her face and the hand with her glass already raised.

Liking the suggestion Sansa smiled and the appropriate toast entered her head almost immediately. “To surviving?” she proposed raising her glass as well.

Margaery chuckled and nodded. “To surviving King’s Landing,” she said.

Sansa’s smile got a little broader. It gave her more joy than it should, thinking about how very angry Cersei would be if she knew that they were both sitting here, very much alive and safe.

Margaery was good at hiding her feelings. Great even. Still Sansa could see the short moment when her face grimaced as she took the first sip of wine. She bit her lip to suppress the amused smile that threatened to come to her lips.

“Not quite like the wine from the South, I know.”

“Not a dornish one, that’s for sure.” Margaery looked at her almost apologetically. “But as long as the grapes have fermented properly, I suppose it does not matter how much sun they had before they were harvested.”

The low rustling of the wind outside had grown into a proper howling and for once the cold air seemed to almost seep inside and the candle lights flickered a little. It made the way there were sitting inside, the warmth radiating from the wall, all that more comfortable.

“I think I could get used to nights like these,” Margaery said thoughtfully. “There is a certain magic to it with the storm raging outside and being here safely in the warmth.”

Sansa knew exactly what she meant but a moment later she shook her head anyway. “I hate storms. Ever since I was a little girl they’d frighten me terribly.”

“I think I’ve adored storms ever since I was a kid,” Margaery said with an indulging smile. “Especially thunderstorms. The way the whole sky would light up, seemed like sorcery to me back then. And I love the rain. There is nothing quite like the smell after a warm summer rain.” She took a deep breath as if the smell was surrounding her at that moment.

“I’m looking forward to summer,” Sansa told her. “Summers in the North can be stunningly beautiful. I did not appreciate the last one, because I was still a stupid child, who was bored with the familiar. But now I can’t wait to see everything around me bloom in a lush green.”

It seemed idealistic to talk about the summer right now. First they’d have to get through the winter. And no one could tell how many years this one would last. Or what they’d have to face. But of course, Sansa did not voice any of these thoughts.

“I would love to see it,” Margaery told her. “It sounds truly beautiful.”

Sansa found that she liked the idea of having Margaery still here when spring and summer came. They would be able to go riding. She could show her the wider realm of the North. The green hills and the luscious green forests. They could ride to Deepwood Motte or even all the way up to the wall. But summer seemed so far away still.  Sansa got up and casually pushed open the window covers open a little to look outside.

“Looks like a major snow storm,” she noted and quickly closed the covers tightly.

When she turned back to Margaery, she did not seem bothered by it, but merely nursed the glass of wine in a way that almost reminded her of Cersei.

“Though it is not ideal, I suppose it will give you some time for breathing tomorrow,” Margaery picked up the conversation.

Sansa nodded thoughtfully. Yes. Winterfell and the roads leading up to it, buried in a fresh layer of snow would slow life down a little bit, give her at least some time to catch up with the paper work that had been stocking up on her desk. She only briefly let her thoughts wander to everything that was unfinished there. She did not want to be reminded of it right now. The suggestion of sharing a glass of wine had been in order to get her mind off of her duties. But maybe she needed more than that for distraction.

“How about we make the best of this bad weather and play a game of dice?” Sansa proposed.

With a sense of delight, she watched Margaery’s face light up at the suggestion. “Yes please,” she said, an excitement in her voice, that she had not heard from Margaery since she arrived in Winterfell. “It has been too long since I have  played.”

The same went for herself, and Sansa smiled as she took two leather cups and half a dozen dice out of the lowest drawer in her desk and sat back down at the table. “Do you know how to play Mia?”          

Margaery almost looked offended at the implication that she might not know it. “Of course.”

Sansa chuckled at the nearly insulted tone and collected two dice into one of the dice cups, casting the rest aside. Her hand covered the cup and she shook it. “I would not have thought that Olenna Tyrell would have liked her only granddaughter playing tavern games.”

“Please, who do you think taught me?”

The game was as simple as it was tricky. Luck was only a small factor, mostly it was about about lying, and catching the other in a lie. Sansa started the game by rolling the dice and carefully peeking beneath the cup, careful that Margaery could not see anything. Looking at a three and a one. She had two choices, tell the truth and announce the number of spots or lie and declare a different number.

She lowered the cup, pushed the concealed dice on to Margaery and chose the latter option. “Forty Three.”

Margaery eyed her every gesture and Sansa gave her a friendly, but challenging smile.

With the choice of either believing Sansa and rolling the dice without looking at them or calling her out on her lie and looking at the dice, Margaery’s eyes closed in on the cup, her fingers briefly brushing over the turned-up bottom. The way she looked at her gave Sansa the certainty that she had chosen the wrong game to play with Margaery Tyrell.

A small triumphant smile was playing in Margaery’s eyes even before she lifted the cup.

“Liar,” she accused and revealed the lower count that was presented in front of her.

Being caught in a lie this early in the game and losing a life, Sansa thought she would be able to use to her advantage, but still it stung a little bit on her pride.

Margaery took the cup between her hands and shook it only lightly. “I may have grown up in Highgarden, but not just to stitching roses on handkerchiefs.”

“Playing a game of Mia with your grandmother has to be terribly frustrating,” Sansa mused.

She could almost see it before her. The alert bright eyes of Olenna Tyrell, watching her opponent’s every move. Never making a wrong assumption. Her face not moving a muscle whether she spoke the truth or lied. Probably not unlike Margaery right now, but even more infuriating.

“I think I have not been able to beat her more than once throughout the years that we played together.”

She shook the cup a final time, and when she turned it upside down on the table and looked at the numbers underneath, her face was completely neutral.

“Mia,” she announced then, still not the hint of an emotion in her expression.

Calling that out suggested she had rolled the highest possible count. In this case, Sansa could either give up without looking at the dice and lose one life. Or look at the dice. If it was a Mia, she would lose two lives. If it wasn't, Margaery would lose one.

Sansa met Margaery’s eyes that dared her to call her a liar. Sansa shook her head, no one was that lucky to roll the highest count on their first try. She lifted the cup of the table and saw that Margaery apparently was. She had not lied. That was three live lost for her after only two rounds. Now Margaery could not help the gloating smile that appeared on her face.

“I guess she must have thought it would be a great way for me to learn to read people. Or keep my face under control. Probably doing both at the same time,” Margaery elaborated, her eyes observing Sansa closely as she rolled.

“Who knew that all it took to reach Olenna’s level of diplomacy, was a couple of games of dice,” Sansa drawled.

This time when she peeked at the dices she did not lie and Margaery did not question her, but simply left the dice covered and rolled them. The so very unreadable expression she wore every time it was her turn drove Sansa mad.

“Yes, well I suppose it had the desired effect,” Margaery mused as she lowered the cup again and pushed it over to Sansa. “Though I don’t think the games were all that it took. … Mia.”

Sansa took a noisy breath. No, she decided. Not even Margaery Tyrell was that lucky.

“Liar,” Sansa accused again, only to be disabused when the dice showed the correct count.

Margaery only smiled softly at Sansa’s huff, taking a sip of wine. “Only one life left in this round for you,” she teased. What Margaery’s face lacked in expression whenever she played, she made up for in-between.

“Well I have never played this game against someone who learned it as a way to practice diplomacy,” Sansa said a little tighter in her voice than she liked. She was not a sore loser, but something about the way Margaery smiled at her after her small victories irked her the wrong way.

“How did you learn?” Margaery wondered, as Sansa shook the dice cup between her hands.

Sansa shrugged. “Even summer nights can be pretty cold here in the North. And I grew up with four brothers, and a sister who was not at all interested in playing with dolls.” This time around Sansa did not look at the dices as she pushed the cup to Margaery, but only assumed the count. “Fifty One.” Another option one could take in the game. Stating a number without knowing if it was true. One mostly used by bad liars.

Margaery looked amused at the move, but did not contradict her and reached for the cup to shake it without looking at the number of spots.

She did however take a look. “Sixty Two.” There was that daring tone in her voice this time around. Daring Sansa to prove her wrong. This time however Sansa did not follow her instinct and instead just shook the cup again, peeking underneath it then.

“Sixty Four.”

With raised eyebrows Margaery took a moment before she shook her head and lifted the cup of the table. Her smile ceasing when a six and a four lay in front of her on the table.

Sansa held her ground with that last life, a lot longer than she had believed herself. However in the end, she still lost the round with Margaery still having four lives remaining. Playing with Margaery was as fun and challenging as it was maddening. They played three more rounds and Sansa could only win one. The loss was bothering her more than she wanted to admit. Or maybe it was the shit eating grin that Margaery wore.

“Don’t look quite so conceited,” Sansa chided, taking a sip of her wine. “It does not suit you.”

Margaery’s smile got a little wider. “I would not have taken you for a sore loser,” she teased.

“And I not  for such a gloating winner,” Sansa said trying not to sound too bitter.

Margaery chuckled. “My grandmother used to say that people would stop playing with me soon if I could not keep my face from gloating quite so much.” She looked at her glass thoughtful. “If I had listened to her back then, I think I would have been spared from a lot of things.”

A sombreness returned to her face, and Sansa wished she could bring back the annoyingly vain look from a couple of moments ago. Playing a game was supposed to be a distraction, it should lighten the mood. Not bring out dark memories or regrets.

Still she felt she owed it to Margaery to question her last statement. “What do you mean?”

Margaery sighed. “I can’t help, but wonder… if I had just been a little more diplomatic with Cersei, tried to win her over instead of contradicting her, making fun of her, every single step of the way… maybe a lot of things would have gone a lot different.”

Sansa knew that pondering about one’s own choices was a natural reaction to what Margaery had endured and overcome. She herself had done a lifetime of it in her darkest moments. What if she had not left Winterfell in the first place? What if she had not been quite as stupid and meek in her affection for Joffrey? What if she had not been stupid enough to trust Littlefinger when he had talked her into marrying Ramsay?

The answer did not matter. It was what it was and she had to live with the choices she had made. But it did not feel right or very empathetic to tell Margaery that. Not yet at least. Her wounds were still too fresh.

“Even if you had changed your own behaviour, do you believe for a minute that Cersei would have?” she asked her to consider instead, applying to her logical side. “It was not all up to you.” There was always action and reaction. So many different factors that played into every decision she had made. Things she probably did not even know about.

“I suppose you are right,” Margaery said relenting.

Sansa knew that her agreement was more in order to not talk about it anymore than that she was actually agreeing with the point she had made. She could see that Margaery tried to pull herself from those thoughts in her mind that had started to run in circles, but could not quite manage. And Sansa knew that even if she came up with the best distraction now, the thoughts would sneak up on Margaery again as soon as she was alone. So she did not contradict her any more, but simply refilled the glass of wine, in the hope that for Margaery it would be one of those nights were the wine brought sleep, instead of more thoughts and memories.

“I’m sorry,” Margaery said after a while where they sat in silence. “I did not mean to bring down the mood quite so much. I was actually having fun tonight.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows and gave her a look. “Of course you were having fun. You could not stop winning.”

Margaery laughed lightly. “Still not over that?” she asked, a light amusement back in her eyes. “Don’t worry my sweet girl, we’ll have plenty of time for a rematch. Maybe one of these days I’ll let you win.”

Let her win? Sansa felt her lips draw into a small line. “Who says I did not let you win tonight?” she challenged.

“You certainly are not that good a liar.” Margaery stated, barely containing a smile. She looked Sansa straight in the eye. “You’re barely even a decent one.”

That was exactly the curious thing. While she was surely not a great at lying, and certainly not at a level that Margaery was capable of, she usually was not too bad at pretending, at deceiving someone when she needed to. There were at least dozen different occasions that she could have listed where she had lied like a trooper. Without stumbling in her words, without blushing, her eyes cold and barely even blinking.

Only with Margaery for some reasons this ability disappeared. What was it about Margaery that made her wear her heart on her sleeve quite so much? She surely had grown from the silly young girl from King’s Landing, who could not form a decent sentence under Margaery Tyrell’s eyes, but apparently not as much as she liked.

“What if that all is part of my plan to luring you into a false sense of security?” Sansa said playfully.

“And then you will come around and crush me at our next game?” Margaery laughed.

Sansa shook her head, enjoying the teasing back and forth too much to let go of it quite yet. “Not the next time,” she said. “I can’t have you expecting it.”

“I look forward to it,” Margaery nodded in acknowledgment and smiled.

Sansa gathered the dice and the leather cup. “Until then, maybe I’ll just burn those,” she said with a serious face. “As they are obviously cursed.”

A smile tucked on her own lips when Margaery laughed dearly at her joke.

There was not enough laughter in either of their lives anymore. Not nearly enough laughter in Winterfell. The thought made her sad. But this time around there was a sense of hope in it. Hope that it would not always stay like this. Hope that she still had some light heartiness in herself. That this part of her had not quite vanished as she had feared. Or hoped at times.

Small steps, she told herself. Tonight had been a good night. One where she would not be up until the middle of the night. She hoped the same would go for Margaery.

Over the small smile she tried to offer Margaery came a yawn that she could not hold in despite her best efforts.

Margaery smiled softly. “It was a long day.”

Sansa simply nodded and without words they silently agreed on calling it a night.

They moved to Sansa’s bed chamber and stood in the same place where they had started the day. Sansa sitting on the stool at vanity and Margaery standing right behind her. Margaery loosened the braids she had created in the morning and brushed through Sansa’s long hair carefully with her fingers.

It was something that Sansa had barely been able to stand a couple of days ago. It had triggered something in her. Memories of a night, of several nights. Memories about his fingers in her hair… And it had made her feel sick. But she had forced herself not to shriek away from Margaery. To not give him that power. And slowly, little by little, she found that she did not mind it so much anymore. Could even feel a sense of release in the action, when she had worn her tightly braided for most of the day.

“I cannot even say how very jealous I am of your hair,” Margaery sighed, replacing her hands with the brush and going through it strand by strand. “So gorgeous.”

Sansa looked at Margaery through the mirror. There was no need for jealousy, she thought as she looked at Margaery’s reflection. Long hair or short hair, scars or no scars, servant clothes or fancy dresses.

The scars would fade, her hair would soon be long and majestic again. One day she’d wear fancy clothes again.  With Margaery it did not matter. She would always have that certain spark about her. That smile. This warmth. She would always be one of those people whose inner beauty reflected on the outside.

“You have no reason to be,” she told her sincerely. Not finding herself quite able to tell her everything that had just gone through her mind.

“You’re too kind,” Margaery replied with a humble smile. “And I hope you don’t think of me as terribly vain. It’s just…” she paused to consider the right words. “Well, look at you, only a blind person would not admire your beauty.”

Sansa only smiled solemnly. Not out of a sense of inferiority or false humbleness. She knew about her looks. She knew that her sister had been right when she said that the Lady Stark attire suited her. But more so it was also a sort of disguise. It was a mask. An armor. It gave her strength. It gave her confidence. It gave her protection. Maybe it was the fact that it was necessary, that made her long to shed it from time to time.

That was what was different with Margaery, she realized then. What had been the reason why she could see through each and every one of her bluffs tonight. She could not lie to Margaery because she did not really want to.  Because it felt good for at least a couple of hours not to wear the disguise of Lady Stark, that she had slipped into like into a second skin, and not be on guard all the time.

Margaery’s hand worked quick as they plaited her hair into a tight heavy braid. Sansa had noticed that it did not come quite as easy to her. She noticed how she would stretch her fingers in between movements, as if she was wearing gloves that did not fight quite right. 

When her work was done, she retreated a step and a half back. For the first couple of days she had asked Sansa during the nightly routine if she needed help with undoing the lacing of her dress. And Sansa had always denied her, telling her she could manage. Now Margaery did not ask anymore.

Sansa was grateful that Margaery never probed for reasons. The way her dress was laced and layered it was obvious that it was a struggle to undo it by herself, but Margaery just accepted her refusal silently.

It was not as if Sansa was afraid in any way. She trusted Margaery. And she was not ashamed of the scars on her body. Especially in front of Margaery how could she be? She may not have been wearing them with pride, but at least with a sense of strength. They were not a reminder of Ramsay or what he had done to her. They were more so a reminder of what she had survived. That she had survived and come out stronger on the other side.

Sansa had long withdrawn from any power that Ramsay still held over her, but from time to time he still loomed over her and her decisions. Not having Margaery see her scars had nothing to do with any remaining fear of him. Quite simply, it was that she was not ready for the questions that would come with Margaery seeing them. With the inevitable compassion that would fill her eyes. The possibility that she would treat her differently because she knew. That was a thought she did not think she could bear. Not when the time she spent with Margaery was the sole time during her day, where she felt somewhat care free.

Margaery was one of the few people who did not know about Ramsay and what she had endured under him, and the moment she found out, she would look at her with the same sense of compassion that everyone else gave her. Treat her like a victim. Like she was weak and needed protection. She enjoyed the time she spent with Margaery too much to have it tainted by this. Her not knowing that these horrible things had happened to her made it so much easier to pretend that none of them had ever happened.

When she was with Margaery, she was not the girl who had survived terrible things. She could act like the girl who never experienced them in the first place.

“I can hear the wheels in your head turning,” Margaery said from behind her and looked at her closely through the mirror. “What’s on your mind?”

Sansa’s looked off into space, for a moment and the lie came easier of her lips than she had expected.“I was just wondering… that book you were reading, The Lay of the Sorrows,” she asked, “do you enjoy it?”

After being caught in almost every single lie during their game tonight, Sansa did not expect Margaery to believe that her thoughts had in any way been related to some stupid book. She was, however, gracious enough to not say a word about it or call her out on it.

“I haven’t decided yet.” Margaery answered instead. “It starts out as such a typical tale, I almost put it aside upon the first pages. But now it seems to take another turn.”

“I must have read it three times already,” Sansa confessed, and closed her eyes for a moment before she started to recite. “”I do not know what happened afterward. Here ends the story of the Sorrow’s last stand.”” Then her eyes fell on Margaery again. “Once you’ve finished it, I’d be interested to hear your thoughts.”

Margaery smiled and quickly agreed.

When they bid each other good night and Sansa laid down in her bed, she found that sleep was not quite as easy as she hoped. But her thoughts were not occupied by her duties and responsibilities regarding Winterfell, also not by any of the things she could not share with Margaery quite yet. More so, she lay awake and her mind occupied by The Lay of the Sorrows, recounting the story in her mind and trying to assume Margaery’s reaction to it.

She looked forward to hearing her thoughts on it, and her reaction to the end, she almost wanted to sit next to her as she read it. It had been quite some time since she had looked forward to something quite so much. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! This is the last more "superficial" chapter, before we dive into the acutal plot of the story a little more. So stay tuned :)  
> As always I'm very curious to hear your thoughts, so any comments are greatly appreciated.  
> And of course a big thanks to everyone who subscribed, commented and left Kudos!


	5. Chapter Five

Margaery had never been one to enjoy a too tightly wound daily routine very much. All her life anything even resembling it had bored her tremendously. Not that she particularly needed chaos or disorder to thrive, just a healthy amount of alteration in her everyday life. It had been like this for as long as she remembered. From a very early age that had been a strong trait for her, something that had managed to irritate those around her. She had been upset when during a stroll someone wanted to take the same way back that had led them there. Had become very quickly uninterested when a topic during her lessons was repeated or given too great an amount of time. Loras had wanted to hear the same bedtime stories over and over again, and she had driven several Septas mad when they told one story resembled the other too much, forcing them to come up with new ones.

And this had continued throughout her adolescence and adulthood. She was always eager to find new activities to spend her time on, try out new foods, see new places, meet new people, go to bed a different hour every day. Find different ways and sceneries to take a walk in. She loved variation and change.

Really it was no wonder that after three and half weeks within the same rooms, with the same sequence of activities every day, she slowly started to feel like she was losing her mind. The days in Winterfell could stretch out to an incredible chain of nothing happening at all. She was still limited to the small walls of her own room and with restriction Sansa’s chamber; none of the windows offered a view to the courtyard; and as beautiful as she had to admit the scenery of the North was, she quickly grew bored of the same sight every day. The first few and last hours of each day she usually spent in Sansa’s company, but the time in between could stretch out endlessly long.

A prison, no matter how comfortable it may have been or that she had chosen it herself, was still a prison. The initial comforting sense of security and steadiness she had longed for after all those weeks on the road, had worn away quicker than she could have ever anticipated.

Being safe and in a place where she hardly had to worry about anything was great, but all the energy that had kept her going for all those weeks and months was still there. Only she did not quite know what to do with it anymore. Everything she had cherished so much in her first days in Winterfell, the warmth of a chamber, the comfort of a bed and the safety, suddenly made her feel incredibly restless. Maybe that was also what brought back her uneasy nights. Margaery had always been actively involved in whatever surrounded her, and with this sudden inactivity, she had to force herself not to pace in the small space of her chamber. After months being on her feet and on guard every second, she slowly started to feel like a caged animal, that was well taken care of, but could not do anything anymore that came with its nature; only sit and wait.

But wait for what exactly? She wondered about her prospects more than once. There was nothing she could involve herself in. Nothing she could do to influence her own situation. And even if she could, she had no idea anymore of where she wanted her own life to go. For almost half of her life, she was set on gaining power, on becoming queen. Now, being queen was not high up on her list of priorities anymore, if at all. Even the possibility of going home to Highgarden one day lacked any of the positive promise she was so desperately looking for.  And the thought of yet another marriage seemed almost laughable. She had outlived all three of her husbands already; Margaery was by no means superstitious, but too pragmatic to ignore a sign so obvious.

And so she stayed in this new firmly knitted routine she had fallen into and did not know how to escape from anymore. Every day exactly the same. Waking at the crack of dawn, washing and dressing herself, fixing Sansa’s hair, sharing breakfast with her and then reading throughout the day, waiting for Sansa to come back.

Margaery had taken up reading shortly after her arrival in Winterfell. She had considered it a good way to keep her mind sharp while at the same time it kept her busy. The stories offered her a way of breaking out of her own life, and escape into someone else’s, even if it was only in her mind. Sansa’s personal stock of books turned out to be far more diverse and interesting than Margaery could have ever envisioned. It went from the expected grand romantic tales of brave knights, over poem collections, to history about the North in specific and Westeros in general. As well as a not insignificant collection of books about politics and aristocratic theories, some of which could almost be considered subversive. She sat by the window of her chamber, day in and out, cuddled up in furs and blankets with a nose buried in a book, trying to soak up as much of the read as she possibly could, switching from one book to another without finishing either one; all in order to have some diversion. Yet, even with the five books she altered between, this started to bore her as well, but it was better than nothing. It kept the waiting time until late at night when Sansa returned for dinner and they’d end their day with a nightcap of wine and a couple of rounds of Mia.  

Margaery valued the time she got to spend with Sansa greatly, only it did not offer much variance either. When they sat long into the night, Sansa would use the time to tell her about her day in general, about distinctions in specific, or simply look for her general advice. It was still very cautious from Sansa’s side, but she was slowly growing more and more comfortable with her. Most of the things they talked about were trivial though. Soon enough, Margaery knew all about how Winterfell was prepared for the winter and the enemies from the North, but still felt she knew very little about Sansa and what occupied her thoughts. She doubted that corn storage, allying with other houses, and a making Winterfell less impregnable were all that was on her mind. For sure, it was a big part of what she dealt with and what she worried about, but for certain it was not solely these topics that let Sansa avoid sleep for quite so long every night.

It frustrated her to such an extent, that she did not know whether to hit her own, or Sansa’s head against the wall, when Sansa started, yet another time, listing off what had been done for the preparation of Winterfell. Margaery didn’t ask Sansa a lot of questions anymore. She started to feel like a parrot in her offers to talk, that Sansa never quite accepted or answered only vaguely to. She longed for more personal details about Sansa, and there were only so many general topics they could talk about. Or so many times she could defeat her at a game of dice, before that too ended up being more of the same, just as their conversations.

Margaery did not want to be ungrateful, because all in all, their nightly talks over a carafe of wine and a game of Mia were Margaery’s favourite time of the day, but she could not simply deny that all of it started to bore her tremendously.  Which was something that did not slip Sansa’s attention.

“You’re not focused,” Sansa told her, as she gathered the dice into the cup, putting both aside. Sansa’s eyes were watchful and alert on her, a hint of accusation in them.

It had been their third game of the night. Margaery had not lost, but that was only because playing this game came as easy to her as breathing. Only the single rounds of the game became significantly longer, for the reason that she her own enthusiasm for the game and for winning had faded significantly and Sansa got away with a lot more lies than she had before.

“I’m sorry,” she told Sansa. “You’re right, I can’t quite concentrate tonight.”

“Is there something on your mind?” Sansa asked carefully, refilling both of their glasses.

Margaery shook her head. This was not something she could share. Alone the thought of telling Sansa that it was not some big issue, unpleasant memories or fear, that left her so unfocused, but simple boredom, made her feel deeply foolish. Because shouldn’t she be thankful for this boring security and daily routine she found herself in, instead of dreading it quite so much? How had the times of when she had slept outdoors or her feet had been sore and bloody from walking all day, already vanished from her mind, that she did not appreciate what she had right now?

“Why don’t we play another round,” Margaery suggested and put on a firm smile, silently hoping that maybe if she acted cheerful about the perspective her mind would catch up eventually. “I promise I’ll keep my head in the game.”

This time Sansa shook her head. “It’s not fun when there is no actual challenge in playing with you.”

Margaery could have pointed out that apparently there was, since Sansa had still lost, but swallowed the words, feeling guilt-ridden enough already. She watched the drawn-back expression take over Sansa’s face and replace the smile that had been there when they had started their game. She could tell that Sansa cherished these times that they sat together and played. They gave her some sort of outlet of her tiring days, offered her some distraction that she was obviously in need of.

“I’m sorry,” Margaery apologized one more time and meant it. “Maybe we can play something else instead?

Sansa considered the possibility, but chose to answer with a different suggestion.

“Would you like to go for a walk?”

Margaery opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, already shaking her head and trying to name all the reasons why that was not a good idea.

Somebody could see her, someone who wasn’t supposed to. Somebody could recognize her. The word that Margaery Tyrell was still alive could spread, quickly and soon enough to all the wrong people.

But would that be the worst?

The thought was in her mind almost immediately and the more rational side chided herself for it harshly. Had the monotony already reached a point where she considered risking her safety for it? Was she that much of a fool?

Or maybe it was just a healthy sense of realism returning? Truthfully, she knew that this supposed security, this hiding out, would not be able to last for the rest of her life. Not only was she going crazy confined in these walls, almost so desperate to get out, she’d be willing to risk a lot more than just her own concealment, it was also only a matter of time until someone would take notice of Lady Starks mysterious handmaid and put two and two together. Sansa could assure her a hundred times that her servants where very loyal and trustworthy, but Margaery knew better. Knew that the secretiveness alone of her never leaving her chambers would raise questions and gossip sooner rather than later.

“It’s almost midnight.” Sansa tried to ease Margaery’s worries. “Almost everyone is asleep, and I know the right ways to avoid whomever isn’t.”

Even with the two cups of wine in her blood, Margaery still felt uncertain. It was stupid. And unsafe. And also exactly what she really wanted to do.

She finally nodded and a tentative smile appeared on her face. “Some fresh air does sound divine.”

Sansa smiled back at her. “Let’s get dressed then.”

It took her a few minutes, but huddled up in several more layers of clothing, scarfs, furs, as well as a big cloak, Margaery moved back into Sansa’s chamber, where Sansa had simply pulled on a pair of leathery gloves and thrown a cloak around herself. Sansa looked her up and down in an amused manner, but was too polite to comment. She reached for a lantern, which she had equipped with a fresh candle and opened the door, where she carefully peered in both directions of the hallway and then gestured for Margaery to follow her.

The outlay of Winterfell was confusing, as probably is  any castle of a similar size. Margaery found herself following Sansa through a labyrinth of corridors and stairs. The light Sansa had brought along only provided them with a dim shine, but Margaery was pretty sure that Sansa would have found her way through these halls even in the complete darkness. Margaery had to focus on her pace in order to keep up with the big steps Sansa was taking. There was no way she would have found her way back on her own.

True to Sansa’s words they did not meet a single soul on their way and only after a couple of minutes they reached a large door that Sansa pushed open and before them the wide snow-lined North appeared in all its glory. They were standing on the balustrade that wrapped around all of Winterfell like a belt, and the cold air along with the sight both literally and metaphorically took Margaery’s breath away. It was a rather dark night, with the moon more than halfway gone, but the snow reflected the small amount of light in a way that managed to prevail the darkness. Margaery tilted her head back, closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the cold air into her lungs. When she opened her eyes, she was met with the clearest starlit sky she had ever seen in her life.

“It’s magnificent,” she told Sansa, her eyes still looking at the stars, and with every second that passed there seemed to be more and more of them visible.

Sansa only smiled and let her eyes wander over the lands and buildings of Winterfell. Margaery caught the sight of her and found a look of simple contentment on her face, unlike she had ever seen it before. Something in Sansa’s features had relaxed and Margaery was certain she had never looked happier as she did in that very moment. The thought hit Margaery that if she could stop time for them right now she would, not for herself and because she felt so very liberated, but mostly because of the peaceful expression on Sansa’s face.

It didn’t take long for Sansa to catch Margaery’s eyes on her and the Lady of Winterfell mask slipped back on way too quickly for Margaery’s liking.

“You really love it here in Winterfell don’t you?” Margaery asked, genuinely curious

Sansa smiled at that. “When I was growing up, I could not wait to finally leave. And now, I can’t imagine ever wanting to be somewhere else again.”

Margaery only briefly wondered if she had ever felt this way about any place and hoped that the twinge of envy she felt was not visible. Highgarden was her home, there was no question, but feeling quite this content as Sansa did, she could not even imagine. What had made Highgarden special were not the beautiful gardens or the lands surrounding it; it was the people who lived there. Her family most of all. With all of that gone, she doubted she would ever be able to love it as much as she once had.

“Show me around,” Margaery requested, hooking her arm through Sansa’s.

They balustrade surrounded Winterfell almost entirely and they ended up wandering around the complete grounds for over an hour. Mostly in silence with only Sansa occasionally pointing out landmarks in Winterfell. Margaery felt herself reminded to the strolls they had taken together throughout the gardens of the red keep. It felt similar, only with the roles slightly shifted.

After an hour outside, Margaery couldn’t deny the cold that had seeped through every single one of the several layers of her clothing. She was freezing to the bone and Sansa looked at her in a mixture of pity and amusement.

“Maybe we should call it a night, before you’re completely frozen stiff.”

Margaery huffed, and simply pulled the hood a little tighter.  “Not on my account. I’m fine.” If she was completely honest, after this glimpse back into the world that was outside of the four walls that were moving in on her a bit more every day, the thought of going back to them almost felt suffocating.

Sansa continued to look at her with a bemused facial expression. “Well, if you’re sure…” They continued walking for a few steps and if Margaery’s sole existence had not been reduced to the thought of how very cold she really was, she might have noticed the mischievous grin that spread over Sansa’s lips sooner. But by the time it all clicked in her frozen head, Sansa had already brought a couple of feet between them and thrown a ball of snow in her direction.

Margaery shrieked as she felt the cold hitting her straight in the face.

An appalled look appeared on her face as she tried to gather what had just happened only to catch the sight of a dearly laughing Sansa.

“You will regret that!” Immediately trying to make good of her promise and she threw a heap of snow right back at Sansa, who made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scream as she tried to duck. In the couple of minutes that their rough-and-ready snow fight lasted, Margaery forgot all about the cold. Or any precautions that their laughter and giggling could attract any unwanted attention. She forgot about everyone she had lost. She forgot all about the secret she hid beneath layers of clothing that could very well destroy her. She was just a silly young girl, having fun with a friend. Margaery had never felt as light.

Sansa was the one to raise her hands first and declared defeat, when Margaery had trapped her a corner of the granite rampart. “I surrender,” she said solemnly, breathless laughter still in her voice.

Dropping the heap of snow that was still between her hands, Margaery could not help the smug look that appeared on her face, as she took a gracious step back. “A Tyrell from Highgarden beating a Stark in a snow fight,” she announced and wiped rests of snow off her completely soaked through gloves. “That is one for the chroniclers I’d say.”

Sansa only raised her eyebrows. “Well milady, your lips are starting to turn blue and I’d consider it dishonourable to beat a weakened opponent.”

Margaery smirked, but followed suit as Sansa led them back inside. Her need for some warmth finally outweighed her longing to stay outside. “Whatever helps you to accept your defeat.”

When they had passed the maze of halls and stairs back to their chambers, Margaery stood by the fireplace for a moment to warm up her frozen stiff body. A sense of joy had returned to her mind, that she thought she had lost altogether, her throat still felt strangely raw from loud laughter and yelps. Margaery very much appreciated the way Sansa had broken the monotony she found herself in. More so that she did not even have to say it, but that Sansa simply realized it and found a way to end it. 

She took a look over her shoulder to Sansa who’d already dropped her cloak over a chair and found herself on the receiving end of a such a very gentle smile, that warmed Margaery more than the fire right in front of her would ever manage.

During the next couple of days Margaery and Sansa extended the ritual of their nightly talk over a glass of wine, to a nightly walk through Winterfell. They’d started with rounds outside, but soon Sansa would outspread their ways through all parts of the inside of Winterfell as well. Margaery found herself in the great hall, the gallery overseeing the courtyard, the library. It was a new world for Margaery and she loved having Sansa as her guide in exploring it. The more regular their nightly walks became, the more secure Margaery also felt in finding her way around Winterfell. It was still confusing, but she was positive that she gained some more idea of the general outlay.

Something she appreciated as well, was how easily she would fall asleep afterwards. Into a dreamless sleep that barely included nightmares anymore. After – sometimes hours – of roaming around through the cold walls and exterior of Winterfell, the warmth of her chamber and bed, lured her always very quickly into a deep sleep.

Throughout the day she still sat by the window and kept herself busy with reading, but it was not all that bleak anymore, since she now had something new to look forward to every night. Only the time seemed to pass even slower during the day, because the nights were so much more interesting.

The indication that all of this boredom and monotony she had suffered from so greatly during her first weeks in Winterfell was over once and for all, hit her a lot sooner and out of nowhere than she could have ever anticipated.

The day that Lord Baelish appeared in her chamber, Margaery for the first time thought that maybe all of the monotony and dullness had merely been the calm before the storm.

As always the door to Sansa’s chamber was only leaned on and when she heard the door opening and footsteps approaching she looked up from her book expectantly. Her hope that Sansa was coming in early today, was disappointed when Lord Baelish appeared in the door way, approaching her at an appropriate distance.

He gave her a polite smile. “The Lady Sansa wants you to know that she would not want you to wait on her to start eating. She has to attend some matters which cannot be delayed.”

Margaery nodded and smiled at him tightly. “Thank you, Lord Baelish.”

She was not hungry, but that was really not the point. She did not eat lunch. Had not had lunch served for herself even a single time since she had arrived in Winterfell. But she had no doubt that he knew that. Even more importantly, he had to know that not once in all of her time here, had Sansa come back to her chamber before late afternoon. So she would not send Lord Baelish of all people to her in order to excuse her very much expected absence.

She looked at him expectantly, when he did not withdraw as would have been suitable. Instead of retreating, he took a couple more steps towards her.

“I also wanted to see if there was anything you might need,” he offered all too lavishly for her taste.

Margaery knew that any conversation with Lord Baelish was never just that. He had barely spoken more than a handful of times with her since her arrival and had not seemed particularly interested in her company. Had never approached her when she was alone, something she had quite honestly expected him to do. It was something she had not known whether to be relieved or worried for. Now that he did, she did not know whether to be intrigued by his sudden appearance or concerned because of it.

 

 “You’re too kind, but I have everything I need.” Her expression gave nothing away of the wondering that was going on in her mind. Of the sheer curiosity what he wanted of her all of the sudden. It stirred something in her. She pulled the shawl she wore more tightly around herself and forced herself to give him a charming smile. A sense of threat, she realized then, that was what it was. And not just because of all people, Littlefinger finding out about the secret she hid under it, would be the possibly fatal to her.

He remained standing next to her in silence, consideration on his face.

“This cold must be quite the adjustment for you,” he noted, his eyes drifting outside the uncovered window where they overlooked acres and acres of snow covered lands. She eyed him carefully as he seemed so eager on pretending to be lost in the thought.

“It is,” she acknowledged. “I had never seen snow until the day I arrived in White Harbour. And I liked it for all about two minutes, before I was fed up with it.”

He nodded with a knowing smile. “The North and the cold can be harsh. Hard to get used to when born in the South like you or myself.” Still not meeting her eyes he added, “But it does hold some particular beauty and attraction at the same time, wouldn’t you agree?”

She knew exactly what attraction and beauty he meant; she had seen the way he looked at Sansa more than once. She would have liked to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. A man preying over a girl half his age was pitiful under any other circumstances, but with Lord Baelish it was a reason for worry. Margaery denied herself the direct words she wanted to give him. Contradicting him in this infatuation could not only endanger her, but also Sansa.

“Indeed,” she agreed.

His gaze was still focused on the landscape outside. “It’s a pity it is once again on such unstable feet and under such great danger from both South and North.”

She followed his line of his sight outside, tried to figure out if he was looking at anything in particular, in order to make more sense of his words. Where was he getting with this? What did he want? She was good at reading people, but his expression did not betray him for even a second. She decided to try and break his reserve ever so carefully, to move the conversation along.

“For sure an alliance between the North and Daenerys Targaryen will be a powerful force to overthrow, whether the treats is southern or northern,” she added for consideration.

Of course she could not expected him to just reveal what the purpose of this visit was. Littlefinger had not been the Master of Coin for so very long because he was a bad dealer, and power plays were his fortune. She figured that this grand possible alliance had to hold some interest for him.

He hummed in agreement. “Certainly,” he said. There was a certain look in his eyes when he continued. “And I have all my faith in our King. He has all the great traits his father had. Honour, integrity, strength.”

Margaery had almost a bit of admiration for the way he spoke, not too hasty in his words of course, very watchful in letting them sound sincere. So much efforts to letting it all seem like meaningless pleasantries and musings. But it did not take a lot of insight to understand what he really meant - that those traits did not bring the late Lord Stark an awful lot.

Finally, he met her eyes. “And of course, he was very wise in leaving his sister in charge,” he declared. “Sansa is young, but she has a great instinct for leading.”

Now understanding dawned on her. She finally had an idea why he was here and what his sudden interest in her wellbeing was all about.

“She has grown up a lot, indeed,” she answered ambiguously to his statement.

“I think your presence here will be good for her,” he continued, saying the words as if the thought has only now entered his mind. “I’m afraid as a woman in her position, while she has risen to high greatness, she was a little lonely. Female companionship will do her good. Will help her find herself in life and as a leader.”

It all fell together quite so easily. Of course Lord Baelish was aware of Sansa’s general distrust in him, and Margaery could only guess that if Sansa was quite so reluctant to share anything of importance with her, she had to be even more closed off towards him. Only a fool would trust him, that had been her words. Margaery, living in such close quarters with her, was clearly a valuable asset. She had the potential to be his eyes and ears. She would be able to listen to Sansa’s words, repeat everything to him, and most importantly feed her the right – presumably his – words in return. Mould her in the way that would be most useful to him.

Margaery felt more than just a little reluctance at the implication; more so revulsion, truthfully.

Granted, it was not so much different from what she had done when she had first met Sansa all those years back. Almost every word she had spoken to her back then had served a purpose much greater than just offering well-meant advice or friendship, but Margaery felt sincerely guilty when she thought of it now. For so many years, Sansa had not been nothing but a token in other people’s games and power plays. It filled her with sadness that even here in the safety of her home that still had not changed.

Did Lord Baelish really deem her to be quite so cold? To be this reckless with the trust that Sansa put in her, when Sansa had shown Margaery nothing but friendship and kindness in a situation where she had nothing?

More so, Margaery also felt that he made a dire miscalculation when he thought Sansa to be quite as easily manipulated. Not only had Sansa grown from the young naïve girl she once was, over and above, Margaery was not quite sure Sansa trusted her any more right now than she trusted Lord Baelish. Years had passed, things had changed. Sansa now could be distant when she wanted, almost cold.

It had taken her a while to put a finger on what exactly it was, but whenever she thought back on how Sansa’s eyes and how attentive they were now whenever they spoke, or how they were following her tiniest movement. The difference between the Sansa from King’s Landing and the young woman next door, was the lack of trust. In the past, Sansa had hung on everyone of Margaery’s word and taken it as a fact value.

Margaery was a pragmatic person, but she was certainly not made of stone. She felt compassion when she wondered, whatever Sansa had gone through, that robbed her off her blind confidence she was once able to give. Because while it was a necessity in order to survive, it came with a sense of serenity that Margaery herself knew, was not only a blessing.

“I don’t know that I will have so much to support her with,” she told him. “She seems to know very well, what she is doing and what she wants.”

There was not even a hint of disappointment in his face at her careful worded objections. “That indeed. She knows very well what she wants.” He paused and his smile broadened just the tiniest bit. “But I think you will agree with me that what we want and what we need sometimes are complete opposites.”

Margaery did not show a reaction to his words. No smile, no nod; she did not move a single muscle in her face. She just looked at him, daring him to say more.

The look he gave her however held a finality that suggested that he had said what he came to say. “I do not want to take any more of your time than I already have.” He bowed as he bid her goodbye. “Lady Margaery.”

Returning the polite words did not make it past her lips. She only nodded and kept her eyes closely on him as he left her chamber. For a moment she considered standing up to close and lock the door behind him to make sure he would not come back.

With him gone, she felt a new kind of restlessness appear in her chest. This cautiously worded proposal he had just left her with suddenly made her long for the boredom and monotony that she had perceived as so utterly burdening only an hour ago.

He had put the ball in her court, to a game she quite honestly had no interest in playing. Still now it was up to her to do the next step. One way or the other.

It was more than just him trying to recruit her for his own purposes. He was testing her. Seeing if she was valuable for him or a threat. Had dared her to do so, without ever revealing what his intentions were at all. He was too careful about that.

Her choices how to react to it were very much limited. And either one was more than just a little dangerous.

The right thing would simply be to inform Sansa of the conversation. Let her know that Lord Baelish’s declaration for House Stark was not as set in stone as he made it seem. But what information did she have to back that accusation up? None. He had been very cautious, to not say a single thing she could hold against him. Not one word of proof. He had calculated it very well. Should the try to pull her on his side turn out to be fuel, and she not trustworthy, she would not have a simple statement to hold against him, which could be deemed in loyal or suggesting a wrong game in any way. She did not even know his intentions behind it, besides the obvious of strengthening his influence on Sansa. And chances were Sansa was already very much aware of that.

Speaking such a heavy accusation without any proof would only recoil against herself. Since then he would have proof that she was indeed a threat to him, and then there was no knowing what he would do.

But what was her alternative?

Going along with his proposal, while another option, was out of the question altogether.

Sansa did not deserve that. She deserved a friend, a confidante. Not someone who still participated in these ridiculous power struggles. Who only spend time with her in order to manipulate and mould her for their own purposes. Margaery assumed that Sansa had come across quite too many of those in her life already. Margaery would have never considered herself a particularly good person, but certainly not a capable of doing something so gruesome. Once she had made her loyalties she stuck to them and did not simply turn around at the first remote offer of something more than what she had.

But again, where did that leave her?

If she kept quiet towards Sansa about it, when she knew something about him was off, was that not just as bad as collaborating with him?

Should she maybe pretend to go along with his suggestion? Play on his good side. Try to make him think that he had won her over? Even pretending to agree to him felt wrong. But for now, acting coyly was most likely her best shot. If she could just get him to a point where he thought that she was trustworthy, sooner or later he would make a mistake, reveal his true intentions. And then she would have the necessary proof to bring to Sansa.

It was a delicate situation that she would need to find a way out of somehow. Margaery knew she had participated in more dangerous games before, some where there had been a lot more at stake. If anything irked her it was the little thrill she felt within herself. It was something she tried to push away.

In a lot of ways, those games, those power struggles, were a gamble. Like a well laid out game of cards. Everybody held on to their own information, to their own trump cards. Just like a game, it also came with a certain sense of addiction. Once you won a game, won one struggle, you wanted to see how far you could go. Higher stakes every time until you reached the point where you either did not want to stop anymore or couldn’t.

For Margaery, it had been the hard awakening after her final game against Cersei, which had managed to get her off of this addiction. She had lost and had no more cards to play. It had been liberating in some way, enough to make her swear to herself that she’d never bring herself into this position again.

Yet, with what had just happened, she felt the tingling sensation return to her body, that sense of thrill, of suspense; like someone had just handed her a fresh set of cards.

Throughout what was left of the afternoon, Margaery tried hard to get her focus back on the book in her hands. Tried to ignore the prospect and the implications of what Lord Baelish had proposed to her would have. Until she did not have a clearer idea of what his ambitions were, it was useless to keep on thinking about it, she told herself. But that was only the half of the truth. She could not think about it any longer, because then she would have to acknowledge the almost pleasant anticipation of what was about to come stirred within her.

She had just about reached half of the book that came so firmly recommended by Sansa. The Lay of the Sorrows was the tale of a great knight, and it had everything you expected from that. A brave hero. A cloak of invisibility. A slain dragon. The hero becoming invincible. The hero discovering great treasure. A beautiful maid that he wanted to make his wife. Initially she had been expecting the romantic heroic ending those tales usually had, but that part had passed by almost as a side note. Margaery had been surprised when the story took a turn for the worse very quickly after the hero seemed to have conquered it all, and had been perplexed at the more than questionable choices that had followed.

Just barely back focused into the story where everything seemed to escalate over a ring and a girdle, when the voices from the other room drew her attention away from the book in her hands. She looked up surprised when the silence of her afternoon was disturbed yet another time in only one day.

The voices coming from Sansa’s chamber woke her curiosity, but she forced herself to stay where she was. Forced herself to stay focused on her book. Too fresh were Lord Baelish’s implications in her mind and her own termination to not do anything that would support them.

“They were insulting Jon,” an unfamiliar voice stated. “And you sat there and listened.”

Margaery closed her eyes for a moment, despite herself. She could feel how her mind started to search, to inquire and trying to figure out if she had ever heard that voice before. With a deep breath she pushed the question away before she could reach any conclusion and instead read the same sentence in front of her one more time. The one that she had not quite managed to make sense of yet, even though she had read it five times already.

_The girdle she was wearing was silk from N_ _y Sar, w_ _i_ _th_ _precious stones for fastening, right good it was to see._

She read the verse one more time, but could for the live of her not concentrate on the context of it anymore. She understood each word on its own, but could not string the meaning of all of them together.

“I sat there and listened to their complaints, which is my responsibility as Lady of Winterfell,” Sansa’s calm and collected declaration sounded into the silence of her own room.

“Their opinions are important to you,” the unfamiliar voice replied; not so much in an accusation as in a statement.

“Glover has 500 men, Royce has 2,000. Offend them and Jon loses his army.”

“Not if they lose their heads first.”

Those words were enough for Margaery to finally stop her tremendously shallow pretence to concentrate on her book. Who was Sansa talking to, she wondered. And what was this about? This did not seem like your everyday discussion. Far from it. As she craned her head in order to maybe catch a glimpse through the ajar door, she could make out nothing, but the grey granite stones of the opposite wall.

Just stay out of it, she told herself one more time. Whatever it is, if it has an impact on yourself, you need to trust Sansa enough to tell you on her own time.

Still her ears carefully listened for more, whether she wanted to or not. The book lay open and almost forgotten in her lap. She heard slow footsteps. Not many. Maybe three or four and then again Sansa.

“Winterfell didn't just fall into our hands.”

Sansa spoke calmly and something about her sober, explaining tone intrigued Margaery. This was not Sansa talking about something trivial. Not her talking about her daily duties or speaking polite terms. It sounded much more than something, that had been on her mind and on her lips for quite some time. And it sounded like one of those traits of her, that Margaery so desperately wanted to learn more of.

Quite quickly throwing all caution and qualms of conscience into the wind, Margaery unwrapped herself from her covers. She held the closed book to her chest and moved towards the door. A certain feeling returned to her chest that, that had been there once again already that day, right after her conversation with Littlefinger. A certain kind of thrill, that woke in her like a distant memory from her former life, no matter how many times she told herself that it was wrong and so very stupid. It only grew as Margaery advanced the door. She kept some distance, but was close enough to see Sansa, who stood sideways to her. Through the door crack Margaery could only spot the back of the person Sansa was talking to. The attire suggested something else, but going by the voice it was obviously a young girl; dark hair that was tightly pulled back and figure that was about a head shorter than Sansa. Margaery could see the exasperated, but in no way relinquishing, look on Sansa’s face as she closed the distance between herself and the girl in front of her.

“We took it back, and the Mormonts, and the Hornwoods, and the wildlings, and the Vale. All of us, working together.” She paused shortly, but heavily. She sounded calm and her tone way less lecturing than the words indicated, even though a certain self-importance could not be denied. “Now, I'm sure cutting off heads is very satisfying, but that's not the way you get people to work together.”

Her words impressed Margaery truthfully. She’d been able to guess that Sansa was doing a good job with running Winterfell, but not that she was quite as considerate, almost prudent with her actions.

Just a pity that this realization apparently was lost on the other girl.

“And if Jon doesn’t come back, you’ll need their support. To give you what you truly want.”

And what was that? What did Sansa truly want? Margaery quite honestly doubted she knew herself.

“How can you even say such a horrible thing?”

Sansa seemed sincerely appalled by the suggestion, disappointed even. Her words sounded sincere, but came maybe a little quickly. Like she understood very well what she was being accused of, without the concrete accusation ever being vocalized.

“You're thinking it right now,” the girl took it further, and even from the distance, Margaery could see the growing unease in Sansa’s face as the girl took a couple of steps towards her.  Margaery still couldn’t see the girl’s face, but upon her proximity, not even the way Sansa towered over her could help to keep the expression that resembled anxiety off Sansa’s face. That unease seemed to prove the girl’s point. Sansa’s eyes rested on her opposite carefully. Guarded and maybe even a bit threatened.

“You don't want to be, but the thought just won't go away.”

Unfortunately, Margaery’s hope of Sansa’s reply being as calm, intelligent and pragmatic as her previous words was severely disappointed. Sansa’s words did not live up to her expectation in the slightest. She did nothing to defend herself, but ever so clearly indicated that their conversation was over.

“I have work to do.”

Margaery wished dearly that she would have not surrendered quite so quickly to such a poor excuse. That she would have replied one more time with smart and well emphasised words. And not dismiss accusations in a way, that made it look like there was some truth to it.

Sansa held the girl’s look for about another heartbeat, before she turned away. And Margaery wondered why. Why was she not able to look her in the eye any longer? Was it disappointment because of the accusation? Or did she maybe feel caught? Was it guilt in the end? Only when she brought some distance between them, she turned around one more time to look at her. Almost cautiously. A piece of paper in her hands that supported her excuse of having work to do.

“My Lady,” the salute sounded mocking coming from the girl.

It clicked then in Margaery’s head. The way she spoke to her. No acquaintance or friend, let alone servant would ever dare to speak to Sansa that way. They spoke with a familiarly and without any unnecessary politeness or distance. A little like she and Loras had spoken to each other, had bantered with each other. The girl was Sansa’s younger sister. Arya Stark.

As she spun around to leave the room, Margaery took a quick step back, just before she could have fallen into Arya’s field of vision. As much as this girl intrigued her, it was not worth blowing her cover over. Someone who talked about cutting people’s heads off over insults, for sure did not treat quite that lightly on people listening in on private conversations.

It was pure stupidity, which seemed to be the theme of this day for her, that had her daring to gaze back into the room once the footsteps where fading away; only to be directly met by Sansa’s eyes looking at her. The startle Margaery felt only lasted for about a moment before she caught herself and pushed the door open wide enough so she could slip through. Maybe Sansa had known she was there the entire time, had expected it. Or maybe it was only a coincidence, but Margaery decided she wouldn’t act guilty or remorseful. Simply because she wasn’t. She had overheard a conversation through an open door, that happened to take place, in a room next to her own. What should she done? Cover her ears?

“I’m sorry,” she apologized right away anyway. “It wasn’t my intention to eavesdrop.”

“You should try not doing so, next time,” Sansa suggested in a biting tone.

Margaery smiled apologetically and tried to reason, partly to Sansa, partly to herself. “Old habits die hard. In King’s Landing listening to other conversations could be of pure vitality.”

Sansa rolled her eyes and turned away from her. “Yes, well, we are not in King’s Landing.”

Margaery mulled over that, as she looked at Sansa’s rigid back. Her hands where still sorting papers on the tables. One’s Margaery was sure of, she had seen Sansa sort out  the other day as already dealt with. Slowly then she took a few steps further towards Sansa. “May I speak frankly?”

Sansa’s movements stopped, and Margaery could see that she was taking a deep breath. Maybe to calm herself, because for one day, she had surly had enough of people being all too honest with her. Still she slowly turned halfway around and looked at Margaery in expectation and a little irritation, daring her to make a good point instead of wasting her time any further.

Margaery did not hesitate.

“From what I just heard you have a very intelligent, clear and sober look at the world,” she told her, and was especially deliberate with sincerely meant tribute in her voice. “But, forgive me, you are a fool.” -Sansa’s eyes glared at her in a way she had not known possible- “to just dismiss anyone disagreeing with you in the way you just did.”

Sansa shook her head. “I was not dismissing her,” she returned. “She was accusing me of things that were not true and I decided not to listen to it for a moment longer than necessary.”

Margaery wondered for a moment if she should point out that that was quite exactly the definition of dismissal, but decided against it.

“Winterfell or not,” she said instead. “You need to keep your wits about you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It is in man’s nature to forward their own agenda, their own fortune and survival before anything else. People are not good natured by heart, but selfish and greedy. And they will assume the worst of you, if it suits them. No matter how untrue the accusations, believe me they will not hesitate to turn on you.”

The question of who she was warning her of appeared in the back of Margaery’s mind. Her sister? Lord Baelish? Or herself?

Either way it seemed to hit a nerve, because Sansa proud’s and almost annoyed expression seemed to melt off her face, her straight posture slacked the tiniest bit. Then she shook her head. “I’m so sick of all of these power plays.”

“Understandably,” Margaery acknowledged simply. She was too. Or had been. Should be.

She firmly endured the moments of silence that followed, feeling the importance to have Sansa start the next part of the conversation. She had to resist the urge to say some more words, as she had learned quite some time ago that silence was a powerful tool when you wanted people to open up to you. More powerful than any alluring and silky words.

“I did not ask for any of it,” Sansa finally spoke. “When Jon left, he left me in charge and I have only done what I saw as his best interest… at our best interest, to hold the North. To strengthen it.”

Margaery remained quiet and listened. Not interrupting her with any statements of agreement and understanding or comforting words.

“And you know what?” Sansa continued. “I’m good at it. Great even. But what my sister is accusing me of…it’s so ridiculous. After everything... it’s like she doesn’t even know me.”

Margaery could have pointed out that Arya Stark had not provided any clear statement of what she was accusing her of, and yet Sansa seemed to have read quite a lot into those vague accusations, but she saw the dark look on Sansa’s face and realized that for Sansa, those accusations were not the problem.

“That’s because she doesn’t know you,” Margaery interjected carefully. “Not anymore. She knows as little of you and what you went through, as a stranger.”

Sansa let those words sink in and it seemed to almost physically hurt her if the tortured look on her face was any indication. Margaery had not offered her anything she had not known yet, only said it out loud.

“After everything that was taken from me… I thought I finally at least got my family back.”

A sadness came over Sansa’s face like a veil and Margaery felt a wave of compassion rolling over herself. She once again found herself reminded of the young girl with sad eyes from King’s Landing. Because only someone with a heart of ice could have not felt sorry for Sansa in this very moment.

Margaery denied herself the instinct to speak words of comfort or offer any gestures of it. She could have taken Sansa’s hand, and told her that time would take care of it, but what good would lying do in this moment? With what had been going on this afternoon, she felt that it would be so very hypocritical of herself. Instead she had her hands firmly on the book that she had still firmly pressed to her chest and once again endured the silence. This time however, saying nothing did not trigger any more revelations or words out of Sansa. Instead, she only seemed to realize that she had said way too much already and where there had been vulnerability a moment before, her eyes grew distant.

“Not to be rude, but I do have work to do.”

Not too much frustrated by the dismissal, Margaery simply nodded. This was more information about herself than Sansa had offered her in the whole month she had been here. She knew not to push her boundaries.

 “I apologize. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

She gave Sansa another friendly smile and made her way back into her own chambers. Back at her reading spot by the window, the book lay forgotten on the sill. Her mind replayed over and over again all of what she had just heard and witnessed. What Arya Stark had said and, even more so, Sansa’s reaction to it. As much as Sansa had denied it then and afterwards, her sister was definitely not wrong. Sansa enjoyed her current position more than she even admitted to herself. Margaery was familiar with the feeling. And for Sansa she could only imagine what an especially tumultuous experience this had to be. After being depended on other people and helpless for so long, now, not to only run everything, to have people listen to her and take her seriously, but to also realize she was good at it. It was inevitable to have the wish not to let it go, come with that.

It was merely her conscience that told Sansa she had no right to do so.

That was what Lord Baelish wanted her help with, she realized then. To make sure that Sansa’s conscience did not prevail, but her hunger for power.

And Margaery cursed herself for her immediate thought, that in her he had picked the perfect person for that.


	6. Chapter Six

Throughout the bigger parts of her days, Sansa was tired.

It had snuck up on her; first it was only in the mornings that the left over sort of drowsiness from sleeping had stuck with her through the first couple of hours in her day. It had come with a certain irritation and lack of concentration. She had blamed it on staying up too long the night before, but soon found that even with the appropriate amount of sleep it did not cease. Instead it only had slowly extended well into her afternoon and evenings. And with it, Sansa had come to realize that it was not fatigue as such, or at least not the kind that a simple good night’s rest would cure. It was not a physical need for sleep so much as a sense of being overwhelmed.

Everything felt like it was too much. Too exhausting. Too big of a bother.

Her desire of not having to deal with any of it grew; not the duties; not the conversations; not the decisions.

From time to time she now found herself in situations where she had to force herself to care at all, as well as wearing a face that suggested she held a deep sense of concern about even the most trivial issues.

Giving in to any kind of indifference or exhaustion was not an option for her. Jon had left her in charge, and being in charge meant to be on guard and at her best form all of the time. No excuses, no exemptions.

All things considered, the stand of House Stark was solid and the North stronger than it had been in years, yet Sansa had no illusions that there weren’t a thousand threats all around. Not just the grand obvious ones from King’s Landing or beyond the Wall; every day she felt herself being watched by those surrounding her. They judged each one of her words, every one of her decisions strongly - a lot stronger and harsh than they would with any man in her position. It was a balance act of proofing herself, doing what was right, yet at the same time not upsetting anyone. One where she could not show weakness for even a second.

She loved her role as Lady of Winterfell, she really did. And she knew that even when she was so thoroughly scrutinised, she had not too much she should have been concerned about. She fulfilled her duties beyond anyone’s -even her own- expectations. But at the end of the day, that did not make it any easier as it should have. She could feel how it all took a lot out of her and started to eat away on her substance. The moments where she longed for not having it all on her shoulders, not everything being up to her decision, became more and more frequent.

It was only her strong sense of responsibility that had her to pushing past that exhaustion and the dire thought that it all overwhelmed her. The knowledge that House Stark stood strong with her and because of her, together with the fear of what would happen if they ever lost their stand again, was all at the same time the reason for her exhaustion and her motivation not to surrender to it. There was no other option but to keep going.

Her argument with Arya had not made that any easier.

For weeks and weeks now, since Jon had left, she had done her very best, given it all her strength to hold it all together. But instead of being grateful for it, Arya threw accusations in her face, and was nearly hostile towards her.

They had not gotten greatly along when they were children, so Sansa had not expected to miraculously grow as close with her sister as other siblings were. Sansa was pragmatic enough to recognise that they knew way too little about the other for that. They knew next to nothing about what the other had gone through before they ended up back home. But she had hoped that they both had matured enough so there could be a least a sense of familiarity or recognition. At the very least appreciation.

It was dire disappointment for Sansa to see that they were not even close to this. Her relationship with Arya stood on so very unsteady feet, one wrong move could cause it collapse altogether.

In a way it was like they had not grown up at all. They were still behaving as if they were the same dumb children from years ago. Arya was playing the knight, and Sansa playing the lady. Her sister was so blindly and clearly on Jon’s side, as she always had been. She did not have even a shred of consideration for Sansa, nor had  spent a thought to if she was even really defending Jon’s point of view or only what she deemed it to be.

Only there Sansa felt a deep familiarity. The roles were exactly the same. The trouble was only, that nothing was pretend anymore. It was no longer games they played in the courtyard under the watchful eyes of their parents. They were not children and any words shared between them in a moment of anger could hold dire consequences.

More than once, Sansa had just wished that Jon would finally come back from that forsaken island. She was certain that his presence would make so many things a lot easier immediately. Not just between her and Arya, but also in Winterfell and in the realm. She would no longer have to defend him or his actions to anyone around him. Would no longer have to think every second of her day about all the things she couldn’t forget about and she still had to do, because it could have negative ramifications on thousands of people’s lives.

That was something that scared her so much, she hardly ever admitted it to herself.

Every single decision she made every day, every word she spoke, even every second where she did not have her face perfectly under control could have implications on so many things, on so many people. That was most likely what was tiring her out the most. She had never had held great confidence in her own decisions, had only gained a bit more self-esteem when it came to that in the recent time. But when she had made a mistake in the past, only she would suffer the consequences. Not thousands of innocent people. 

That thought was so heavy it seemed to nearly paralyze her sometimes.

Admitting this to anyone, showing this kind of weakness, was not an option, as little as surrendering was, and so Sansa went on through her days vigorously. Kept herself busy and pushed through the exhaustion and the tiredness so she would not have to think about the reasons behind it.

The glimpse of it, the bit of vulnerability and exhaustion she had shown in front of Margaery after she had overheard her talk with Arya, still bothered her a lot more than it should. She did not think that Margaery would ever hold it or use it against her, but letting go of a shield that she wore as a necessity day in day out did not come easy to her anymore.  Not when for years and years where caution and reserve had been her only weapon.

Margaery never once even let it show that this cautious attitude might annoy her, even though Sansa was pretty sure that it did. She appreciated that more than she could say. Appreciated that Margaery had not once pushed to her to share more than she was ready for. She had a way in which she always just seemed to know what was appropriate for a situation or conversation. It was an ability that Sansa truly admired. Not once had Margaery asked her question that went beyond anything Sansa would have been able to answer, or made a statement that she was not ready to hear.

Spending time with Margaery made it easy to forget about everything that loomed in the back of her mind and over her head. It Sansa’s safe haven. The one time in her day where she could unwind. Feel and act her own age. It held so much contrast to the rest of her life; where everything else was complicated, hard and exhausting, being with Margaery was simple, light, easy, even rejoicing.  Even the more dire topics they talked about had an effect of lifting Sansa’s sprits in the end.

All that was only one more reason not to mix the two worlds up. Not have her daily worries and sorrows taint the few nice hours she looked forward to every night. Even at the chance that Margaery could offer her some words of advice or support, she could not bring herself to talk about all the negative feelings and worries in her head.

Throughout her day, she was never alone. And before Margaery had arrived, and invaded her world, Sansa had cherished the moment where she was finally alone in her chamber and did not have to talk to anyone, react to anyone, or speak at all. It had been an adjustment for her to suddenly have someone there and invading that last piece of privacy. But there was something about Margaery’s presence that made this change run by so very smoothly, to the point where Sansa was not sure she would want it any other way anymore.

Margaery had a way of just blending in in a comfortable way. She read Sansa’s moods like she was an open book and reacted accordingly. Her ability to endure silence was maybe the most important of her traits. Whether that be over a glass of wine, a game of dice, or a walk through the court yard at night. While Margaery was for sure a talkative person, she did silence just as graciously as well thought out words and statements. A silence with her was never uncomfortable or exasperating. Her company was pleasant in a way that not bound to words.

When they did talk, Margaery usually held the majority of their conversation. She asked about Sansa’s day, what she had done, what she had dealt with. Sansa gave appropriate answers and anecdotes. She knew that Margaery was being polite, that she was not really all that invested in her daily duties. Part of Sansa wished she could stir the conversation in a different direction, in one that was somehow more interesting, but did not quite know how to do it. Every time she tried, every time she asked Margaery a question, they ended up on a topic that had Margaery’s expression darken in that certain way. And Sansa, for her part, was not ready to share any more than necessary with her about what was on her mind.

Every night, when she returned to her chamber, it was the same ritual. She unclasped her cloak from her shoulders and sunk down into a chair, her head supported on her hand. It never took more than a couple of minutes before Margaery appeared in the doorway that connected their rooms and smiled at her warmly.

Just with that simple smile, Sansa felt the tiredness that embraced every moment of her day lift itself a little bit. And no matter how often she thought that she would not have the energy to go for a walk that night, but instead just fall into bed and sleep like the dead, something about Margaery’s company helped her to rejuvenate her strength.

She did not want to see the soft smile on Margaery’s face replaced with disappointment. She was very much aware how important these walks were to Margaery after spending day in and day out in the same room, with very little to do. She could tell that it weighed on her and had her growing restless. No, Sansa could not take that from her - even for one night. And even though, that could have been seen as another responsibility she had to burden, but it did not feel like one.

The prospect of a stroll and a conversation with Margaery was what kept her up on her feet and going throughout today, something she found she worked towards the whole day. Sansa chose a new destination for them every night. Fortunately, Winterfell offered enough things to see, that would last them throughout a couple of months. There was something about seeing something you were so familiar with, that you loved quite so much, through someone else’s eyes for the first time. And it was not only seeing Margaery’s eyes light up at the beauty of Winterfell, at the beauty of the North, but also watching how she slowly learned to love it as much as Sansa did.

This night she had taken her to the Sept. Their steps echoed on the stone floor and Sansa stood and watched in silence as Margaery walked further into the space, looking around in the light of the candles. The sept of Winterfell was rather small, and of course held no comparison to the majestic view the sept of Baelor used to be. Still, it had always held a certain pull for Sansa. The smell, the rituals, the figures of the seven along the walls. It reminded her of her childhood, when she had come here with her mother.

“I had not expected a sept here in the North,” Margaery told her, as she turned after her first thorough look around. “I thought the new gods have very little relevance here.”

“My father had it build for my mother,” Sansa explained. “I assume that after leaving her home in the South, he had wanted to offer her some comfort that reminded her of home. Not to give up her gods as well.”

Or maybe it was the guilt that he had come home with a bastard son to his young still so very unfamiliar wife, after leaving her alone to fight in a dreadful war, that defied and overturned the whole world they had grown up in.

“Do you pray to the old gods or the new?” Margaery asked her.

Sansa hardly prayed at all anymore. When she was a young girl, she had found her mother’s gods and the rites that came with her believes a lot more alluring; the beautiful sept where she went to pray, had found the praying in front of a weirdwood tree rather dull in comparison. Then there had come a time, shortly after her father’s death, where she had prayed to both the old gods and the new, only to have neither of them offer her salvation. She had stopped praying after the red wedding, convinced that all prayer was relentless anyway and that the gods did not care for her. Not the old ones or the new.

Now in the rare times when she did pray, she did not go to the Godswood or the sept. Did not speak her prayers to any gods in particular. She did not kneel or fold her hands anymore. Just had moments of silence where she formed thoughts of appreciation for what she had and silent pleads for things she hoped for.

“Neither really,” Sansa answered. “I hold my prayer for myself and hope that someone will listen at all.”

Whether that was the old Gods, the Seven, or even the Lord of Light did not matter. Prayers only very rarely seemed to be heard in the end.

Margaery nodded and understanding was on her face.

She had not seen Margaery in prayer once since she came to Winterfell, she realized.

“Do you still pray?” Sansa wondered.

Margaery shook her head. “I’ve prayed enough in the last year, that it feels it will last me a lifetime.”

Sansa only knew the very rare circumstances of what had happened to Margaery in the time prior to her flight to Winterfell. She had heard the stories that had made their way North. About the religious group that had come to power, about both the queen and the king’s mother being incarcerated for their sins against faith of the seven.

Watching the way Margaery’s eyes drifted over the symbols representing the seven, Sansa could not stop herself from asking about it.

“Was that when you were imprisoned?”

“Afterwards,” Margaery explained. “Loras and I were sitting in dungeons for crimes that were not really crimes. Or should not be at least. They wanted atonement and prayers, and after a couple of months in a dark cell, I was more than happy to pray day in and out, if it meant not going back there.”

Margaery sat down on one of the two simple benches facing the altar.

“I read the Seven-Pointed-Star more times than I can count,” Margaery went on. “Not out of deep faith, but because I needed to tell them what they wanted to hear in order to survive. I think I lost most what was left of my faith somewhere along with that. These people and what they represented, what they so firmly believed in, was nothing I could truly identify myself with.”

“So you have lost your faith altogether?”

Margaery shrugged. “Only in the gods,” she said. “Being nursed back to health by a complete stranger helped me to regain some believe and faith in people.”

Having faith in people was something that Sansa found even less appealing than having faith in gods. She had seen too much of the human abyss for that. Too much death, too much betrayal, too much selfishness.

“I think you would be better off with no faith at all,” Sansa remarked darkly.

Margaery met her eyes and looked at her in silence with a thoughtful expression.

“What happened in King’s Landing, was not done by the gods, but very much by the hand of people out of flesh and blood,” Sansa told her.

Margaery nodded slowly. “I’m not saying that people aren’t horrible a lot of the times,” she acknowledged. “But I believe that sometimes they can be good. Do what’s right.”

Very rarely, Sansa thought bitterly and yet she wondered where Margaery took that kind of faith from. Still, after everything she had lost and suffered. “I don’t understand how you of all people can still so very kindly of people.”

Margaery smiled softly at her. “I most certainly have not lost any sense of realism if that is what you think,” she stated. “But I have seen kindness and courtesy in sufficient enough amounts to not ignore it.”

Sansa did not ask her to go further into detail. She generally tended to disagree with what Margaery had just said, but she could of course see where she was coming from and also found the thought a little comforting. Certainly more comforting than always assuming the worst in people. That was just sometimes a lot easier than looking for the good, trying to understand motivations of why good people did horrible things.

She sat down on the bench next to Margaery and they sat there for some time in silence, just watching the way the candle light flickered around them and threw shadows against the wall. It was very peaceful, Sansa found. More peaceful than any other place in Winterfell maybe, save the God’s Woods.

She ought to come here more often during her days, Sansa thought. She could be sure to be left alone here and no one would bother her when she was in prayer. Not even Littlefinger would quite dare to do that.

“I’ve finished the Lay of the Sorrows today,” Margaery told her after a while.

Sansa only looked at Margaery briefly at the statement. She had been waiting for her to say that for quite some time. Had to keep herself from asking her anything about her thoughts on it before she had not turned the last page. Ever so subtly she had watched the bookmark move between the pages further and further back. Tonight, she had completely forgotten about it though.

“And, what did you think?”

The end was maybe not shocking, but certainly dire. The hero dies about three quarters into the story. And his wife, the fair maiden, is very much at fault for that because she stupidly reveals his one vulnerability. Afterwards, she is desperate for revenge, having all of her enemies killed, and in the last moment is killed herself and the treasure is lost forever.

“Full of surprising twists, that’s for sure,” Margaery answered vaguely. “With a really frustrating end.”

Why did Sansa have the feeling that Margaery was choosing very light words for what she really thought? Like she did not want to scare her off by being all to forward with her true feelings. But this time Sansa had the patience to probe for more information.

“How so?”

“They are all behaving like such idiots!” Margaery exclaimed and continued not less passionately. “Take the fair maiden for example. She is the one to give away the hero’s only vulnerability and is mad when that is used to kill him and then decides to have everyone killed, for her mistake?”

Sansa raised her eyebrows at the outburst. Yes, she knew very well why she had read that book multiple times already. She decided to challenge Margaery a little further.

“Doesn’t it remind you of someone in particular?”

Margaery did not even need to say the name. They both knew. The whole story and all its characters held too much resemblance to people in both their lives.

“That might be why it frustrates me so immensely,” Margaery sighed. “At least this fair maiden pays for what she has done, and she’s put to death in the end.” She pondered another second. “But maybe that makes it even worse? Everyone is dead in the end, the treasure is lost, so what was it all for?”

“I reckon that this was the authors intention. To point out the hollowness of it all,” Sansa said pensively.

Was that why she enjoyed the book so much? Because it helped her ground herself? Remind her that it was useless in the end? How everything dwindled quite so gently to less importance. That no matter how you fought and struggled, it all ended with the inevitable death anyway.

Margaery seemed to disagree. “Perhaps. But that hollowness, as you call it, is really just a question of perspective, isn’t it?”

Was it though? Maybe in some cases, she acknowledged to herself, but the story in the book really had no sense but showing that it was all so very senseless.

Sansa shook her head. “No. There are wars that serve a good purpose and those which serve the wrong or no purpose. The one in this book just seems senseless.”

“But that again, is a point of perspective,” Margaery challenged. “To you and your brother the battle for Winterfell, of course served a good purpose and a sense. But wouldn’t that look different if you had lost?”

“We didn’t though,” Sansa replied stoically.

There was a certain look Margaery gave her before she answered her. One that Sansa had seen before. Whenever Margaery was sure she was in the right. There was that certain self-exaltation. That daring to disagree with her.

“I believe you are smarter than that, Lady Stark,” she returned in a tone that matched her expression.

Simply because she enjoyed this banter way more than was good for her, or for her freshly blossomed friendship with Margaery, Sansa could not let go and just let her assume that she had read her so well and was right. 

“Even if we had lost and died, it would have not been for nothing,” Sansa clarified. “Because Winterfell was and has always been ours by right. I’d rather be dead than not at least try to take it back from whomever took it.”

Margaery looked intrigued at her words. “So the end justifies the means?” She challenged one more time.

Sansa had no doubt. “In this case, yes.” Not making it clear whether she was talking about the book or her own life.

Margaery pursed her lips. “Then maybe we can say that it did the same for our fair maiden in the story?”, she suggested. “Maybe she wanted rather be dead than not at least trying to avenge her beloved husband’s death.”

Sansa pondered on the thought for a moment, but finally nodded. “I think that is true, yes.”

It dawned on her then, how very seamlessly Margaery had brought her to disagree with her own statement. With her own thoughts really. How she had made her see that maybe it was not all hollow and useless.

Margaery leaned back on her hands and her eyes wandered over the peaceful room in front of them. “Maybe I don’t find the ending as frustrating as I initially thought.”

Sansa offered a small smile. “Maybe it is all really just a matter of perspective.”

Finally, she remembered where she had heard those words used before. When Margaery had first arrived and Littlefinger had used them to point out that Cersei’s actions where really just a reaction to a threat that was presented to herself.

 “Do you think Cersei feels the same?” Sansa spoke her next thought out loud. “That no matter what the end, it justifies the means?”

Margaery looked thoughtful at that. Not even looking at Sansa, but just staring ahead for a couple of moments. Even if she could just see her profile, Sansa could tell that Margaery’s expression had darkened.

“For most of it, yes, I think so,” Margaery answered. “With her it is really hard to tell.”

“All of her children are dead,” Sansa gave for consideration. A memory returned to Sansa’s mind despite herself and she could not help but speak her thoughts. She knew that Margaery was the only person who might be able to give her some insight on this. “As I was living in King’s Landing and watching her, I always thought that everything she did, how horrifying and evil it might have been, she did to ensure a future for them.”

Margaery nodded. “I think that is what she liked to think of herself as well.” Her eyes narrowed a little. “When you are as horrible as she is, you have to find a way to justify your own actions. Even to yourself.”

Did Cersei see herself as the good person in her own life? Sansa could hardly see how, but also would not put that kind of insanity behind Cersei.

She had been too young when she had met her. If she had just been a couple years older, had the knowledge she had now, it would be a lot easier to see behind Cersei’s façade. To understand her motivation and by that protect herself and anyone or anything she cared about from it.

Sansa had one more question that maybe only Margaery could give her an answer to. “Do you think that makes her more or less of a threat now?”

Margaery answered her so quickly, Sansa realized then that this was not a new question for her. Most likely one that she had pondered over herself for quite some time.

“She has nothing left to lose and more power than ever before,” Margaery spoke with an unknown tone of dread in her voice. “She’s unpredictable.”

She is afraid, Sansa realized then. Not that she did not agree with Margaery’s statement, but there was something about the way she said it. About the expression on her face, that let her know she was terrified of Cersei. And who could blame her, after she had only barely escaped the horrible death that Cersei had envisioned for her. Still, Sansa did not say anything but remained silent in obvious agreement, and it did not take long for Margaery to confirm her suspicion.

“I shudder thinking of what she’d do to me should she ever get me in her claws.”

“She is not even aware that you are alive,” Sansa pointed out. “No one is.”

Margaery nodded her head a little too strongly, smiled a bit too forced. “Yes, I know.”

Again, there was something in Margaery’s voice. This time around not just a sense of anxiety or fear, more like deep sorrow - sorrow for herself because she was in this impossible situation. Gone from being queen the one day, to hiding out in a servant’s chamber the next; from having a family and friends to having positively no one. 

It was almost as bad as being dead, Sansa understood. What good was existence for someone who had been as overwhelmingly present and popular as Margaery, when no one even knew of your existence anymore? It had to be just as bad as actually dying. Maybe even worse, because when you were dead you were not aware of it.

She wished that she would have never said anything in the first place. Scolded herself for not predicting that this book, discussion about the connections it held to their lives, would just trigger bad memories in both of them.

In an instinct that Sansa did not know she still held within herself, she reached out and covered Margaery’s hand with her own, giving it a small squeeze as a sign of comfort. Trying to let her know that it was important to her that she was still alive. That her death would have made a difference for her.

Margaery, as always, was quick to catch herself and her face’ expression, forcing a brave and encouraging look onto it. Maybe in the hope that her mind would catch up with it eventually.

She gave Sansa a reassuring smile and squeezed her hand back tightly, in a gesture of appreciation, before she released it again. It was a sign that they should move on from the topic and Sansa felt another pang of guilt when she found that she did not quite want to yet. That this back and forth between them was what she cherished the most about the hours she spent with Margaery. The challenging and daring words. The insight into the bigger realm of things that caused her to challenge her own views on the world.

But Margaery gave her an apologetic smile. “How is it that we always land on such dark subjects?”

Sansa felt she knew the answer to that very well. If all that was surrounding them was wars, treason, death and other threats, how could they possibly not talk about it? Margaery had not been raised to close her eyes from the dangers of the world and Sansa had seen and experienced too many of them at first hand. How would they ever be able to banish them from their thoughts?

Sansa did not have it in her to quite return the smile when she answered her.  “That comes with the times we live in.”

Margaery did not seem to be as fazed by it. “We are young,” Margaery then said. “There will be better times.”

Sansa wanted to feel doubtful at the words, but there was something about Margaery’s positivity – a thing Sansa really did not understand where she drew it from – that was really a little contagious.  Yes, they were still young. She only counted twenty years. Margaery twenty three. They were only barely at the beginning of their lives. Maybe looking back, everything that they had overcome and encountered up to here would only be considered the beginning of their story. What Sansa was not quite so certain of yet, was if what was to come would necessarily be better.

“What hopes do you have for the future?” Sansa asked.

Margaery was a little too quiet at that question and very slow to answer. “Gods I really don’t know,” she said after a while. “Everything I had so carefully mapped out for my life, I have either already reached and lost, or it isn’t in the realm of possibilities anymore.” She paused for a moment again. “Happiness seems a good goal. And to come to peace with all of it.”

Coming to peace with what exactly, Sansa wondered for a second. If anyone seemed at peace with what had happened to her and what she had survived, it was Margaery. Most of the time at least. She felt more than a little disappointed with Margaery’s words. It was a pretty standard answer, Sansa found. For all the great words Margaery usually was so eager to throw around, for how smart and ambitious she knew she was, should she really believe that this was all that Margaery Tyrell of all people had a drive for? Peace and happiness? That was something every other peasant throughout Westeros wanted.

“That’s it?” Sansa dared to ask and gave Margaery a challenging look. “There is nothing more you want to achieve?”

“It sounds silly I know,” Margaery acknowledged. “But I find that everything else is just so far out of our reach. Being happy and being at peace with your past is something you can at least consciously decide for yourself.”

This statement was something Sansa clearly disagreed with. One could not simply decide to be happy or at peace with it. That was something you gained, and something that was wildly influenced by your circumstances.

“I do not deem it being that easy,” Sansa countered dryly. “You cannot just decide to be happy and then you miraculously are.”

Margaery smiled, once again that smile where she looked sure she was about to prove her wrong. “There is this story. The story of a dog who is enjoying his life. He’s just lying in the sun and sleeping. And then suddenly he finds that the wagon he is bound to starts moving and he is forced to move along with it if he does not want to be dragged in the dirt behind it. So after a while of sullen plodding after the wagon, he decides to see it as a stroll in the sun. He enjoys the landscape, enjoys the sun, enjoys the wind. And he is happy again.”

So it was all a question of mindset? No matter what the circumstances? No Sansa did not for a minute believe that. Maybe sometimes you could try to make the best out of a bad situation, but that certainly meant that you could just endure anything as it was presented to you. She could have lasted maybe a couple more years in King’s Landing under Joffrey. That would not have killed her most likely. It would have not been pleasant to say the least, but she would have managed, and as she had before, she could have found small joys and moments of happiness to keep her going; but that was only one situation. Even a couple more hours with Ramsay might have quite literally killed her.

“That puts it a bit too universal,” she told Margaery with a shake of her head. “Not every situation is endurable. Not every situation is a question of attitude.”

Margaery looked at her long and thorough. Maybe she was considering the question, maybe she was wondering if she was talking from experience. Sansa almost wanted to squirm under her watchful eyes.

For most of their time together it was Sansa that held the majority of the power between them. Maybe not power, but authority. It was so very the opposite of when they had known each other in King’s Landing. Here in Winterfell, Sansa was the one who was safe and held status. She was the one people listened and served to. Margaery was either smart or grateful enough not to challenge that. Most of the time at least.

Other times, just like now, she got a certain look in her eyes. Something that reminded Sansa of the old Margaery. The real Margaery Tyrell. The Margaery who had been queen no more than a couple of months ago. Because, while their circumstances were different, their tempers certainly weren’t. Margaery was still the more extroverted of the two of them, the one who was bolder and braver. Sansa could feel that one of Margaery’s fingertips could break through the wall Sansa so carefully put around herself. And Sansa was sure that she would not have a hard time doing so. A couple of the right questions, a couple more of those challenging, knowing looks.

Sansa knew that she had grown from the young afraid girl in King’s Landing, but sometimes she feared that she had not quite enough to take it up with people who were so much better raised to play these games then she was. And with Margaery, she knew that is mere restraint from Margaery’s side, that had not had her pull through her defences already.

“You’re right,” Margaery returned. “That undoubtedly does not go for everything. You cannot decide to be happy about everything in life or people throw at you. That is something you can choose.” She stopped in her words, considering. “Maybe that is my goal. To be able to choose.”

Sansa considered the words. “That is not a goal. You always have a choice,” she said. And she meant it. The options of said choice were not always equally appealing. She remembered very well her own choice to jump into the depths or to stay and endure what was coming. Even if the option you had was all too final, it did not matter if it meant you could still make the decision.

“Not always,” Margaery said.

“Of course you do,” Sansa kept on insisting. “The problem is just sometimes all choices are equally unappealing."

“Maybe,” Margaery acknowledged, but there was that crack in her voice, no longer unfamiliar to Sana, something that indicated she did not mean it. Her eyes stared straight ahead. 

Sansa knew better than to push for more information and wanted to return the favour that Margaery had granted her so many times in not inquiring too deeply. But she could tell that something was bothering Margaery. Maybe a memory, maybe a thought, and whatever it was, it was not happy or joyful.

Margaery caught herself in that moment, straightened her shoulders and that ever so kind and beautiful smile re-appeared on her face. “I don’t know about you, but think after all this heavy contemplating, I’m more than ready for an innocent game of dice.”

Not able to help herself, never really, Sansa recuperated that cheerful smile that Margaery looked at her with.  “Sure, that sounds lovely.”

They stood up simultaneously and Margaery hooked her arm through Sansa’s as they walked back to their chambers.

Sansa still wondered what Margaery had meant. What she felt or remembered that was quite so much out of her hands that she did not think she had a choice in it, that it was forced upon her.

And whatever it was, part of Sansa was so very glad for it.

When she had first learned of Margaery’s supposed death of course that had saddened her, had made her angry and remorseful, but all in all Sansa had not thought that it held all that much impact on her life. Now she saw it a little differently. Because how very different would her life be if Margaery had not re-appeared in it? Where would she be currently without Margaery? In the security of her chamber, maybe trying to get some sleep that was never granted to her. Pushing through her days without anything to look forward to? No game of dice, no nightcap of wine, no walks through a nightly Winterfell. It sounded so incredibly dreadful all of a sudden. So very dreary and monotonic. 

Yes, Sansa was glad for everything that Margaery had endured. For every single of Margaery’s choices and mistakes. Because they had led her here.


	7. Chapter Seven

Margaery sat by the window and watched the storm clouds roll closer and closer on the sky. They were so heavy and so dark, that there was almost no light in the day, even though it was barely past noon. So far it was still dry, but she knew that this state would remain much longer. There was no chance that these clouds would just pass by without unloading the heavy amounts of snow they were carrying. The air was sharply cold; ’snow air’ was what Sansa had called it the last time. She had said that there was a certain feeling in the air, a scent, just before it started snowing. At first, Margaery had found the idea ridiculous, but now that she had seen it draw up a couple of times, she could tell that there was a bit of truth to it. It was maybe a bit similar to a thunderstorm that came in after a particular hot day, when you could feel it in the air, see it in the tinting of the sky.

Her sentiment towards storms had changed a little bit. Had anyone bothered to ask her, Margaery very gladly would have withdrawn her statement that she loved storms. She used to. Now bad weather rolling in meant that she would have to stay inside. Sansa had promised to take her to the Gods Wood tonight, but Margaery knew that they would have to postpone that now. She had seen enough winter storms in her short time here to know that going outside in this weather was not only unpleasant, it was dangerous. The winds seemed different as to anything she remembered. They made it hard to stay on your feet, pulled on your clothes and hair, made it hard to stay on the path. Even a trip outside of the keep across the courtyard to another building was unsafe under these circumstances.

They would simply have to spend the night inside and find a different activity. Maybe a game of dice, maybe a game of cards. While not a particularly exciting prospect, Margaery found that she did not mind the idea so much anymore. Given the choice she of course would have preferred to take a stroll in the cool night air, but she would not start pacing in her chamber because they had to skip it one time.

Maybe it would be a good thing to stay in tonight, she decided. She could feel a headache blooming behind her temples. An unpleasant indisposition which grew more and more common recently. As of late she found herself on the receiving end of a couple of previously unknown discomforts. The headaches were, while inconvenient, bearable. What was a lot harder to cope with was the dizziness that hit her from time to time. That was something she was not able to compensate quite so well and it took a lot of force out of her to gloss over it when Sansa was present. Just the other day, it had hit her in the middle of braiding Sansa’s hair and the white spots in front of her eyes had become so bad, for a moment she had not known if she would be able to keep herself on her feet. It passed usually as quickly as it came and she felt fine afterwards, but as much as she liked variation in her life, this was a kind of excitement she certainly could have done without.

It was of course very likely that this had something to do with her pregnancy advancing, but really Margaery had no way of knowing for sure. It was not like she could just go to the Maester and ask for advice about it. Even with all the variety of books that were available to her, there weren’t any that held indications about discomforts in child bearing.

Margaery knew that she was running out of time in this matter. There was only so much time she had left to make up her mind about what to do, time she had left were she could ignore this condition. Even though she had spent so much time and energy pushing any thought about it to the back of her mind, Margaery was not delusional. She knew that she would not be able to keep this secret for very much longer and that it was better to come clean on her own terms, rather than being discovered.

For the past couple of weeks and months, Margaery had thought that she would have to come to terms with it all herself first before she could tell anybody it, that she would need to figure out how she felt about it and what future she wanted for this child. But maybe that was not as important as she had once thought.

The idea of simply telling Sansa did not scare her as much as it used to. Quite the opposite.  Maybe Sansa could help her figure out what she needed to do. If the time she had spent with her had told Margaery anything, then she was indeed someone with a lot of insight. A worthy opponent for Margaery, if you will. Perhaps not necessarily in games that required a great amount of lying, Margaery thought with a smile, but in terms of weighing possibilities, seeing the bigger picture, discussing variations, she certainly could keep up with her.

It was not the first time Margaery had noticed it, but it had become a lot more obvious during their conversation in the Sept. The way that Sansa had challenged her statements, taken them apart, and in the end had maybe not managed to change Margaery’s mind, but certainly consider a different perspective. Keeping her mind sharp with books, had been a nice initial plan, but it was talks like these where she almost completely felt like her former self. Being challenged, challenging herself, discussing, balancing arguments. 

That was another reason why she did not mind a night inside so much anymore. Ever since they had left those trivial topics behind them for the most part, simply talking to Sansa was her favourite thing to do, and the location was only just décor. Sansa was still very guarded in releasing any personal information, but her thoughts on general topics, whether it be religion, politics, people’s motivations, gave Margaery a good idea of who she was as a person.

Sober-minded, maybe a bit too pragmatic for her own good, sometimes a little dark in her views of the future, but that was only one side of her, the one that had most likely developed through not only pleasant experiences. It was fun for her to trigger that other side of her personality. The one that was kind and witty, with a sense of humour that met Margaery’s taste. The one that showed she was still a hopeful young woman with dreams, despite everything, despite her rationality. The one that smiled mischievously before starting a snow fight.

When she thought about that smile, it managed to lessen her worries of what Sansa’s reaction would be. She certainly would not be happy that Margaery withheld such crucial information for quite so long. Especially with how much closer they had grown. And it was quite likely that the thought of Cersei Lannister’s grandchild being born within the walls of Winterfell was not one that would be all that comfortable for her. But really, the way she had gotten to known Sansa, there was little to no chance that she would not continue her promise of protection. She just needed to trust Sansa in this matter.

She needed to be honest and then go from there.

She thought thoroughly about what she would say. How she would say it. Tried to come up with the right words and the right reasons to tell Sansa. She had no illusions that Sansa’s first reaction would by no means be a positive one. Just how she would react was hard to say. Would she be furious? Disappointed? Suspicious? Would she draw back again after finally, slowly, starting to open up? It was hard to predict.

Coming to this conclusion, to this decision, also came with a certain amount of anxiety. Margaery did not know what she felt off about this decision. Maybe it was somewhat too anticlimactic after the great lengths she had gone through every day in order to hide her pregnancy. Maybe it felt positively trivial to just reveal it now. But she had been afraid, she still was afraid, of what would follow, and fear was not rational, not in its building and not when it diminished. Just because everything else in her life had never run smoothly or unspectacularly in any way, did not mean it would have to continue like this.

A knock on the door to her room pulled her from these thoughts and caused a certain churning inside of her. A disturbance at this time of the day had never held anything positive so far. The chamber maid had already been here when she shared breakfast with Sansa, the linens on her bed were freshly set up and there was a full stock of firewood next to the chimney. Besides her, only two other people would come see her during this time of the day.

When the door opened and Lord Baelish appeared, almost instantly every fibre in her body felt tense and alert.

After their last conversation, he had not sought her company again - not on his own, at least. And during such occasions where Sansa was present, he had not once made it seem that anything out of the ordinary had occurred between them. She had been glad for it, but at the same time, it had made her restless because it either meant that he did not deem her a valuable asset anymore, or that he had something else brewing that did not require her. Maybe both.

His disinterest in her cut both ways. The problem was, that despite everything - all the reasons why conspiring with him was wrong and a foul game to play - she still felt a little captivated by his approach. If only because it meant that she was not quite as insignificant as she had felt. And that caused a wave of shame to crash over Margaery’s head, because when she had thought a couple of days ago that she did not value her safety and comfort anymore out of a sense of boredom, it was her greatest blasphemy. Acting with Littlefinger in any way, betraying Sansa because she felt irrelevant … really, if she went there, then there was no salvation for her any longer.

“Lady Margaery, may I have a moment of your time?”

She forced a friendly smile on her face and closed her book. “Certainly, Lord Baelish. What is it that I can help you with?”

She hated those small and deliberately slow steps he took towards her, the expression on his face that suggested he did not know how to approach this. At the same time, she had to admit that she admired his seemingly unfailing patience. The way there was never any rush in his actions or words. Everything he did came with this certain calmness. It was something she had held once. The tranquillity that came with playing the long game and having all the time in the world. In this regard he was undoubtedly ahead of her, because she was running out of time.

“I actually have something that I thought might be of interest to you.” Like the last time, his words were so very permissive, which made her feel repugnance to a level she had not known possible. The words her grandmother had used for him came to her mind: A parvenu - a social climber who did not have much to him other than smart words. That, and a seemingly unweaning way to not leave people alone.

Her eyes fell on the paper in his hands. She almost immediately recognized the waxen sigil. She tried her very best not to look intrigued. Not to be intrigued.

“What is that?” She weighed her tone carefully, made sure it came across like this was more of a bother than anything else, that he was boring her with his ado, disturbing her quiet afternoon, as opposed to bringing something of importance to her.

He continued to hold the document out to her, but did not answer, only waited patiently for her to take it. To quite literally take the bait. Her eyes skimmed over it from the distance and while she could not make out much, one word particularly managed to catch her attention. After hesitating for the appropriate two or three heartbeats she finally reached out with a sigh and a face that had the intention of showing him that he was being an inconvenience. If the positively carnivorous look he wore was any indication, he did not buy her act for even a second.

Her eyes skimmed over the written words. At a first glance it looked like the standard boring declaration, which were fairly common in King’s Landing and so frequently passed around the red keep no one hardly took notice of them anymore. Reports on what was going on in the realm; most of them trivial observations about what had occurred within the city. Reports about how someone looked at a member of the royal family wrong, other times they stated what was spoken about the royal family. It went from lese majesty to someone complaining that apples were too expensive.

This, however, was not your regular boring and meek report about circumstances in King’s Landing. Lord Baelish knew very well why he had brought this document to her. This deeply was personal. The more she read, the bigger became the desire to shake her head in disbelief and horror.

The words the report contained felt shattering in so many ways. It was a detailed description about the conquest of Highgarden, no, about the robbing of Highgarden. About the great extent in which this had been done.

Not only had the gold and the corps been taken, but anything that held any kind of value, and undoubtedly turned to money. From furniture, to art, even dishes and cutlery; but worst of all - the people.

The recounting of the sheer unbelievable number of prisoners that had been taken back to King’s Landing had Margaery’s head swimming. They had not shown an ounce of mercy, had seized up and taken all the young men, women and children. Left behind were only the old, the weak, and the sick, whom with all of the resources taken from them had no prospect of surviving even the first few weeks of winter.

Yes, this was war, this was what happened at war. People of the defeated side were hardly ever handled with kindness, but the way this document stated it, what had been done, what Cersei had done here, what had clearly happened on her orders, was only a little better than exterminating the Reach altogether.

Margaery had not expected Cersei to treat a realm that she had defeated at war any lighter than any of the men who had preceded her, but not to go beyond that in cruelty. She wanted to eradicate not only the Tyrell name and home, but anyone who still held sentiments to the name or anything that ever belonged to them.

Even though she was sitting here in safety unscathed, Margaery felt wounded. She felt hurt. More than she could possibly say. Not only on the more personal side of having all her family’s most private and cherished possessions flogged off like worthless rubbish, but the way the people were treated. The men and women she had grown up amongst. Her people.

Margaery understood the implication of what taking quite so many prisoners back to King’s Landing meant. They were not brought there for their ability to work. The last thing King’s Landing needed with winter on the door step and the city already overflowing with people was even more hungry mouths to feed. They were not brought to stay there.  They had also not been brought there to be executed, that could have been done a lot quicker and easier within the Reach. No, Margaery was almost certain that Cersei was planning to enrich herself on them as well. Sell them.

Slavery might have been illegal within Westeros for many years, but who could stop Cersei from simply changing those laws? Bend them in whatever way she needed to?

“Where did you get this?” It dawned on her just now. It was certainly not the rule that reports from the south just made their way north.

“I still have a few idle and trustworthy acquaintances in the south,” he stated.

Acquaintances. Of course, she thought. Spies and snitches. She could feel his eyes burning into her, she could sense how very eager he was for some kind reaction from her.

She kept her back straight and met his with a neutral expression. “And may I ask why you are showing this to me?”

“If I was in your position I think I’d want to know.”

“How very kind of you.”

“Have I upset you milady?”

Another thought dawned on her as she stared at him in silence for a long moment, the desire to slap that concerned and compassionate look off his face once and all, nearly overwhelming her.

She had been wrong, she realized. He was not as patient as she had deemed him after all. He had waited for her next move all along and when she had failed to give him that, he had drawn his next card. This was his try to get a reaction out of her. He was daring her to lose her composure. And she would be damned if she gave into it. This was a dance. One she very well knew the steps to.

This piece of paper upset her. More so than she maybe yet allowed herself to grasp, but that was her personal reaction. Not one for him or one he got to gain from for his own purposes.

“Of course not Lord Baelish,” she smiled friendly. “But I admit you have me confused.”

“How so?” Incomprehension was not a good look on him, no matter with what false sincerity he portrayed it.

“As to what you expect me to do with this information. Why it should be of interest to me.” She put the paper down to symbolize that it was of no use to her. “I’m in no position to do anything about this. And you know that.” She leaned back in her seat and furrowed her brows as if she was contemplating, so very confused by it all. “So I either have to deem you cruel or just deeply inconsiderate.”

“Neither were by any means my intention,” he promised with a shake of his head.

 She looked at him in a good-natured way and blinked a couple of times in incomprehension. “Then what was?”

Get to the point, was what she meant. What did he want from her? Why did he want to pull her into this game so very badly? The thing that possibly bewildered Margaery the most was the question of why in the world he thought she could be useful to him, let alone of support. The Tyrell family was very well known as to acting first and foremost in their own interest - as was Petyr Baelish. All of this that he perchance hoped to achieve for, were of little to no interest to her – and vice versa.

There was no clear picture for her, what his goal was anyway. Was it Sansa? Was it the North? Was he delusional enough to even try to reach for the iron throne? He could not be quite as foolish.

And even if that was his goal in the remote future, she was quite possibly the worst alliance to reach that. No army, no lands, no gold, no power. And hardly anything held lesser interest for her than ruling. Margaery had meant her words. Let other fools try to kill themselves over the iron or any other throne. She had no more interests in those futile power struggles.

 Lord Baelish did not yet break the heavy silence, but instead he pulled the chair away from the vanity to sit opposite to her, he leaned back and crossed his legs as if he wanted to start a conversation about the weather. The sly smile on his face that Margaery detested so very much was firmly in place. “I thought you deserved all the information before you made any decision.”

Margaery tilted her head in careful presented confusion. “What kind of decision?”

”Well, in regards to your future of course.” She could see a certain spark in his eyes. „No more ambitions towards power struggles or being queen, those were your words if I recall correctly? Admirable ones for sure and they certainly did not fail to impress Sansa… but it left me wondering… where do you see yourself in the future, Lady Margaery? For sure it cannot be your wish to hide out in a servant chamber for the rest of your life.”

Just when she thought she had finally forced him to show his colours, he turned the tables on her.

Her face remained the same smiling friendly mask she always wore around him, but she could not help the slight quip that slipped into her tone, the slight condensation. “I assume you have never been in true vital danger?” She asked hypothetically. “Because had you been, you would understand the great relief that comes with surviving, as well as the ability to see the bigger picture and to learn from past mistakes.”

He looked amused at her words. “If people were able to learn from past mistakes, why have wars over the same things been going on for thousands of years?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he continued. “And you stand corrected, milady. I have been on the verge of death. And from that I know that this poise you feel right now will cease. If it hasn’t already.”

She remained quiet and held his challenging gaze. He read her well. A lot better than she had given him credit for. This man was more than just a parvenu – he was severely dangerous.

He leaned back and raised his eyebrows, his face indicated that he was aiming for his final blow and she armed herself for whatever was to come. His words did not disappoint her expectations. “I do wonder what your grandmother would say to this recently discovered disregard to everything that was so important to her.”

That was such an elaborate kick in the gut, she barely noticed the self-contended look on his face.

What would her grandmother say to her? She certainly would be upset with her. No, she’d be furious. And disappointed. As would her father and her brother, she was sure of it.  Margaery Tyrell had not been raised her to avoid battles. 

“I very much assume, she’d tell me that I was being a fool,” she mused and could not help the smile that appeared on her lips despite herself. Olenna would most likely put it even a bit cruder than that. “That now more than ever, I would have to do everything in my power to destroy Cersei. Use the element of surprise that is clearly on my side.”

Lord Baelish looked at her considerate. “She was a very wise woman,” he remarked.

Very well aware of where he was going with this, or where he tried to lead her with what he was saying, Margaery narrowed her eyes at him. “All that wisdom did not save her.”

“No it did not,” he acknowledged. “I stand corrected, Lady Margaery. It seems like people are after all able to learn from past mistakes.” He sighed and stood up, taking the almost forgotten report back into his hand and looking at it thoughtfully before turning to her with a remorseful smile. “I apologize again if I upset you. Like I said, that was never my intention. I just wanted you to have all the information.”

Margaery clasped her fingers tightly and gave him a curt nod. “Of course, Lord Baelish. Thank you.”

One thing she promised herself - this was the last time he would catch her off guard. The next time she would be the one to approach him. The next time they would meet on her terms, not his.

But for this she needed a very clear plan for herself first, to figure out what she could gain from him. Even more importantly, what he wanted from her, because as much as she wracked her mind, that was still a mystery to her. It could not be only the information and influence on Sansa. Margaery was maybe talented at influencing people, but not one of a kind. It would not be too hard to plant someone in Sansa’s inner circle and feed her the right words. Quite likely someone who was a lot more trustworthy than her and less of a risk.

But what other purpose had him so very interested in her of all people? It was reasonable to assume that he had a bigger scheme in mind.

What she knew for certain was this: In showing her that piece of paper today, he had wanted to stir her out of her apathy. Out of the state where she claimed she had no interest in whatever he would be able to offer her. And as much as she hated to admit it, he had not been unsuccessful.

It was still not the prospect of gaining any power or influence that spurred this. More so he had managed to spark that blind hatred for Cersei that had always loomed underneath the surface. That wish for revenge she had suppressed so very well and eagerly. It was a point, that either had just become clear to her now or where she was had never been honest with herself in the first place. Given the chance and the resources, she’d still very much like to be the one to end Cersei once and for all. Now with this new information more than ever before.

Another thing he had managed to prompt was an almost forgotten sense of responsibility. Other than with her wish for revenge she could not hope for the constellation that someone else would handle it for her. Those were her people. Her home. She was the heiress to Highgarden, the Lady Tyrell, and that meant what happened to her people was her responsibility. It was something that had almost slipped her mind.  Highgarden was her responsibility, her inheritance. That maybe loomed the heaviest on her mind.

Ultimately, she was left with two choices and the first option was so unconceivable, really there was no choice at all. Because she could not just ignore all that she had learned today. Even if she tried, she would not be able to forget what was happening in Highgarden, what was happening to her home and to her people. She could not simply suppress that knowledge and move on with her petty existence here.

There was the option of course to simply fill in Sansa about it all. But what could she offer her, besides well-meant words of compassion? Little to nothing. She would not send her armies south in order to fight Margaery’s battles. Her words were still clear in Margaery’s mind. She would not risk her own safety in the North and the safety of her own people for anyone else’s ambitions. No matter how important or righteous they might be. And Margaery could not even blame her for it. After years of being a token in other people’s games, it was her good right to act in her own interests first and foremost.

But did Margaery not have the same right?

No, she did not want to take advantage of Sansa or had it in her mind to betray her in any way. If there was a right and a wrong side in all of this, it was obvious were Sansa and Lord Baelish stood, and right now Margaery herself was still on very neutral ground. And that was a state she wanted to keep.

Somehow, she would have to find a way to keep this middle ground and still try to pull whatever useful information she could from Lord Baelish. Maybe once she knew more, she would be able to figure out a kind of strategy, a game plan. 

As of now, there was nothing else she could do. She was powerless, did not have anything to her - no leverage at all.

Well, that was not entirely true either, was it? In this godforsaken game Lord Baelish wanted her to participate in, she may not have much, but she did have one very important and valuable ace up her sleeve.  One that was dangerous to play, because it held the possibility for both a marvellous victory or a disastrous downfall.

Certainly the information that she was pregnant with the last King’s child would be considered of value by Lord Baelish. And as long as she was the only one who knew about it, she was the only one to use it to her advantage. It was not much, and most likely not very well thought through, but it was better than nothing. Even if it meant ignoring her more pragmatic thoughts from earlier and keeping Sansa in the dark about her pregnancy for a little while longer. It was not that she did not trust her to keep secret, but anyone knowing would be a liability.

On the whole, he had achieved exactly what he wanted, there was no sugar-coating that. She was upset about the information he had provided all so lavishly and at the same time eager for more. He had managed to spark her interest, and whether she liked it or not he had a certain amount of control right now, his actions had managed to influence her decisions. She would continue to lie to Sansa. Even if it was just a little bit longer and with Margaery trying to tell herself that lying and not sharing the full information where two different things, that was because of him.

Margaery hated anyone having influence on her. With Lord Baelish, it made her skin crawl, frustrated, and depressed her all at the same time. It made her want to scream and smash something against the wall.

It also worsened the headache that had already been blooming all day long; by the time Sansa arrived it had grown so bad she found it painful to speak. Even though Margaery tried her best to keep up a normal appearance and a well flowing conversation during their meal, she saw the shadow of worry in Sansa’s face that seemed to become darker with every word they exchanged. Sooner than to Margaery’s liking, Sansa’s watchful eyes did not relent any longer.

“Are you not feeling well?” Sansa asked straight out, honest worry in her eyes. “You don’t look too good.”

“Don’t you know how to make a compliment,” Margaery remarked dryly and took a sip of her wine. The part of herself that was not completely wrapped up in dark thoughts and discomfort waited for the blush on Sansa’s cheeks that always appeared whenever Margaery teased her. The answer also kept her from admitting that she was not in her best form today and bought her some more time.

The blush however did not appear, instead the expression her face grew a bit more strict. “I’m serious. You look as white as a sheet.”

Margaery smiled and shook her head then. “I promise, I’m fine,” she assured firmly. “Maybe it’s the light. It’s a lot darker with the storm.”

Or you know, the thought that while I hide out here and talk about the weather, everything my family has worked for in the last centuries has been taken away and rendered void. Margaery tried to push the thought back, but it would not stop running circles in her mind. Everything she had been worried about now seemed so trivial. So idiotic. She had known that Highgarden had been left for the vultures after her Grandmother’s death, but had not spent a moment on considering what had happened exactly. It made her feel ashamed.

Sansa looked more than just a little sceptical at the weak attempt of an excuse, but was too polite or perhaps too proud to ask a third time.

“Either way it looks like our trip to the Gods Wood will have to be postponed,” Margaery was determined to move the topic away from her own well-being. The storm that had been rolling earlier was rattling on the window covers, so a walk was out of the question. Today Margaery was thankful for that; even the thought of moving sent a wave of nausea through her.

“I suppose so,” Sansa agreed and made an apologetic face.

It endeared Margaery a little bit that Sansa seemed to feel bad for that. It was not like the weather was her fault or within her power.

“Tomorrow then,” Margaery shrugged it off with a small smile. 

“I’d suggest we go to the stables instead,” Sansa considered. “But with the way the winds blow I’m afraid we would not make it more than a couple of steps into the courtyard before you would be a pickle of ice.”

Only the pounding pain in her head kept Margaery to commenting the side blow with a pointed reply. Instead she only made a face at Sansa and sipped on her wine. The light back and forth that normally came so easy to both of them would not roll off of Margaery’s lips today. Not when every word she spoke and had to listen to hammered in her head cruelly and every thought she formed was interrupted again and again by concerns about Highgarden.

Margaery had found some time ago that she enjoyed light hearted banter between the two of them a lot more than was good for her. The way those clear blue eyes looked at her, dared her, in a way for more than just a reply. Margaery was never one to avoid confrontation or to back down from a challenge, but when Sansa gave her this certain look, this challenging, daring eyes along with that hint of a smile, Margaery was always first to break the eye contact. Broke the moment before she could allow herself to think why this teasing was so quite so much fun.

She thought she know the answer to this already, and it was not something that she could pursue in any way. Margaery was almost certain that if she had only allowed herself to ponder over it for even a second longer, her world would go up in flames. Yet again. Only this time in quite a metaphoric and different sense.  So she stuck to the more distinctive pragmatic part of her mind - that she longed for Sansa’s trust and that she wanted her as friend. And what bad could it be, to find out along the way how to make Sansa laugh, what to say to make sure she had her full attention, how to comfort her when she was upset, how to read as much out of a single look of her eyes as out of ten pages of a book?

If possible, Margaery’s headache intensified with this train of thought and she brought her fingertips to her temple.

Focus.

“We ought to keep the stables in mind for better weather yet,” Margaery suggested. Picking up a topic that related to Winterfell was most of the time a sure way to get Sansa talking and to have her lead the majority of the conversation. For a moment, however, Margaery thought she saw something like confused irritation in Sansa’s expression. As if she had noticed and was disappointed that Margaery had not reacted to her well-meant mockery.

“We just bought five stallions and two mares from House Umber” Sansa elaborated anyway. “Black as the night and taller than I have ever seen them.”

Margaery smiled. “Sounds like some truly beautiful animals.”

“They are,” Sansa nodded, there was an unmistakeable look of pride in her face. “And they are supposedly very, very fast too. Though I have some doubts about the promise that they could make the way to White Harbour in only three days.”

“I miss riding,” Margaery said, with a suppressed sigh. “I wish we could take the horses out for a ride.”

Sansa made a regretful face. They both knew that would be a stretch. Walking around at night was already putting Margaery at risk. But still Margaery found the idea a little exciting. Walking through Winterfell in the middle of the night was endearing, but the thought of riding into those wide fields together with Sansa held a prospect of freedom that she so very much missed right now.

They’d get there, Margaery told herself. There would be a time when they would both ride through the northern landscape, even during the day. Once she had figured a way out of all this mess, when she would no longer have to worry about any secrets between them.

“Do you suppose you could mount a horse covered in all those furs and layers?”

There it was again. That look. That hint of a smile and the daring to take it further. Any other day, Margaery told herself, any other day she’d gladly participate in this back and forth. Today it only added to the things that worried her. Because while it caused that pleasant shift within her, today the questions as to the why that was, and what it meant only added to the thoughts which were spinning circles already. She had so many things on her mind, wondering about why a look out of Sansa’s eyes had such an effect on her, she could not possibly add to her list of things to think about. Not right now when she could barely string a thought together anymore as it was.

“I would manage. I’m quite capable on horseback,” Margaery assured Sansa.

Again, Sansa seemed almost disappointed when she did not take the bait, but then she frowned. “I don’t think I have seen you on a horse … ever,” Sansa wondered out loud.

“No,” Margaery acknowledged and added with a roll of her eyes. “A future queen has to watch her health. The Maesters considered horseback riding bad for my fertility.”

Well, the hand full of times she had snuck out on horseback had quite obviously not manage to harm it, Margaery thought dryly.

“Growing up I’d spend whole weeks on horseback. It gave me a sense of independence. My grandmother did not approve of it, and I think that made me love it so much more.”

Her father used to say that she had been able to ride before she had been able to walk. Which was of course ridiculous, something her grandmother had never failed to point out, but it was almost like she remembered it. She could have not been much older than three or four years old when she had gotten her first horse. A pony with light brown mane, that everyone said matched her own. She hardly remembered how it looked exactly, only the proud feeling when she had been on its back.

Sansa smiled, almost some wistfulness in her expression. “That sounds like something Arya would say.”

They had not spoken about what occurred between them since Margaery had overheard their argument. Margaery knew that it weighed on Sansa; like so many other things that weighed on her, she did not speak about.

“How is the mood between the two of you?” Margaery asked, carefully weighing each word, as if she’d scare Sansa away like a frightful animal with only a wrong word.

Sansa sighed and stared into the distance for a while, clearly thinking about the last couple of days. “I haven’t seen so much of her lately. She’s keeping herself busy, I think. I hope.”

Margaery looked at her questioningly.

“If she is not otherwise occupied it means she’s avoiding me. And that couldn’t mean anything good.”

Margaery shook her head. This was so ridiculous. “She’s your sister. Why do you assume the worst?”

Sansa shook her head. “How can I not? You heard her talking to me the other day.”

Margaery did not say what she wanted to. She’d given the girl Arya Stark some thorough thinking ever since she witnessed the conversation. Was it not possible that she was just as scared and cautious as Sansa was? She had been pulled from the safety of her home at such a young age, how could anyone expect her just to start trusting someone she didn’t even know anymore. Simply because they shared their last name and some memories from their childhood? Sansa of all people, who had such a hard time granting anyone her trust, had to see that, to understand that. It was on the tip of Margaery’s tongue to tell her just that, but she swallowed the words.

“I suppose you have better judgment in this,” Margaery noted in a careful tone. “But does she not deserve the benefit of the doubt?”

“Why, when she does grant that to me?” Sansa huffed. “She has always been like this. Always on anyone’s side, but mine. Not an ounce of consideration how I might feel.”

“Then maybe … if she’s really avoiding you, you have are the one who has to find her. Try to really figure her out. More importantly, make a call that’s based on more than just a couple of words spoken in passion.”

Sansa looked into the flames of the fire for a moment longer and then decisively stood up and put two more logs into it. She remained there for a moment, warming her hands on the fire with her back turned to Margaery. Then she continued her way to the window and pushed the cover open just the tiniest bit. A heavy squall of cold air went through the room and made the flames of candles flicker almost to the point of extinguishing them altogether. Margaery pulled her scarf tighter around herself in instinct. Quickly closing the wooden barrier again, Sansa sighed. “Looks like the worst of the storm has arrived.”

Her voice was calm and held no more of the exasperation she had spoken with only a moment ago. Sansa had this certain way about indicating when she was done talking about a subject. She had done it to Margaery before and Margaery had watched her do it to other people as well. Whether it be Arya, Brienne or Lord Baelish. As smart and eloquent Sansa was, she did not argue everything out to the end. A lot of times she withdrew herself from the situation instead entirely.

Maybe it was a sort of coping mechanism, Margaery thought. Pushing something away, pretending it was not there in order to be able to move on or not go mad. Usually Margaery had enough patience and skill to bring their conversation carefully back to where she wanted it. Better yet, where Sansa needed it. Tonight, she felt she did not have it within her to do that. Not when speaking and keeping her eyes open hurt, or even the way her hair was pulled back in braids a little too tightly caused her discomfort.

And especially not when the thought of how her home was taken apart and there was nothing she could do about it tormented her so much. She was in no state to solve other people’s problems when she could not even concentrate on her own. It made her so upset that one of her strongest traits, her level of compassion, suffered from it.

More so, today Sansa’s avoidance made her angry.

Margaery leaned her elbows on the table, brushed both her hands over her face, and tried to sooth the aching hammering behind her temples with her fingertips. It was jealousy quite and simple that reared its ugly head within her mind. How could Sansa not see how lucky she was? She still had a family to fight with, she was in the safety of her home, surrounded by people who meant well with her. It was that sheer stubborn stupidity that drove Margaery to fury.

She did not have the strength for any more of this conversation. Even less for trivial talk. She wanted to lay down, close her eyes and hope that this blinding headache would be gone tomorrow. Better yet, wake up and realize that everything that she had learned today was no more than a nightmare. That her biggest worry would go back to being so very terribly bored and trying to figure out with what book to continue reading.

Margaery pushed herself up from her chair and she felt herself a little weak on her feet when she did so. “If you don’t mind, I think I will turn in for the night.”

Sansa’s eyes, which had been so very much trying to avoid her, now were back on her and the concern from before was back. Margaery’s statement seemed to startle her, the way that she broke their nightly ritual. She made a couple of cautious steps towards Margaery.  “Is everything all right?”

Margaery own anger at Sansa’s stubbornness soothed the tiniest bit at her genuine concern. She shook her head. “You were right before. I am not feeling well.”

“Should I send for the Maester?”

Margaery shook her head. “It’s only a little headache,” she assured and while the lie came from her lips she had to support herself on the back of the chair just to keep her face not as contort in pain like her instinct told her to. “Nothing that a good night’s rest won’t cure.”

Sansa came a couple of more steps closer. “Are you certain?”

“I am, thank you.” Margaery’s fingertips bore into the wood and she nodded firmly. “Good night, Sansa.”

She did not wait for Sansa to return anything or ask any more questions, but only retreated to her room in quick steps and every step she took along send a wave of fresh pain through her head. Still she forced herself not to stop until the door was safely closed behind her. When she collapsed on the bed without bothering to shed any of her clothes she closed her eyes and had no more strength to question what exactly caused the tears that escaped her closed lids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this week.  
> Thank you all very much for reading and of course especially to those of you who subscribed, left Kudos and commented. The statistics page is in my bookmarks and I check it a lot more often than I probably should, so every number increasing there makes me very, very happy. :)  
> Please let me know what you think of this chapter. I know I put Margaery a bit through the wringer in this one, but what can I say, the one thing I love more than reading angst is writing it...


	8. Chapter Eight

Having a hard time concentrating was not an obstacle Sansa was very familiar with. Any other day, her mind was always exactly where it needed to be in that moment. No matter how dull the conversation, or how pressing a different matter. Anything else she did not only consider impolite or imprudent, but more importantly, inefficient. Missing out even on the tiniest bit of information had for so very long not been an option for her.

Today that was different.

Usually her thoughts did not drift. She always listened carefully to every word addressed to her, all while considering what questions to ask, or issues that still required clarification. Today, a spider on the wall was enough to make her lose her focus. During the last hour or so, where she had been following Winterfell’s pantler through the larder room, the man’s words brushed over her like a light breeze, like something that she knew was there but did not take any real notice of, without ever reaching her.  All she managed was a nod from time to time when she deemed it appropriate, and keeping her expression somewhat interested. Granted, it was not like she was missing out on any significant matters.

For once she was glad for Littlefinger by her side, because otherwise it would have been a complete waste of everyone’s time. Being who he was and doing what he did best, Littlefinger of course took notice of her silence. He gave her an inquiring side glance more than once, that she supposed meant he found her behaviour unusual. It was her fortune that he had enough sense of decency to not point this out in front of the pantler. Not that she would have been particularly inclined to give him an answer. She understood very well what caused this deflection and why her mind was somewhere else.

A sheer endless re-enactment of the previous evening drew circles in her head, and the longer that went on the more her concern for Margaery grew. No matter how many times she tried to focus on things at hand, she ended up at the same spot again and again. Which was that she had no patience for any of this today - not in the least. Not even the tiniest part of her cared for the inspection of the larder room, which was the third one this fortnight, and hardly anything made her lose her focus faster than elaborations as to why storing flour next to potatoes was not advisable.

All that was on her mind was Margaery, and that she wanted to go and see how she was doing.

Last night, even before Margaery had excused herself a lot earlier than usual, something had seemed off from the moment she had set foot in Sansa’s chamber. During their meal, Sansa had not been able to ignore the paleness of her face; she had not known that those ever so gently observing eyes could look quite so exhausted, almost distraught. Her entire behaviour had been strange, so very unlike Margaery. Being spare with words was not like her, and leaving it to Sansa to lead the majority of the conversation even less so.

The concern from this morning, when Margaery had not turned up in her chamber at the normal time, she’d still tried to dismiss as an overreaction. Despite the knot in her stomach, she had managed to condone herself, lastly Margaery had admitted to not feeling her best, and taking that into consideration, not being awake at the crack of dawn was understandable. With that feeble explanation in mind, Sansa had pushed through her morning routine and tried not to not attach too much importance to Margaery’s absence from it. Not while braiding her hair by herself for the first time in over a month and not during the few bites of breakfast she managed to force into her churning stomach.

Only when she could not delay starting her day for any longer and there was no sign of Margaery even being awake, Sansa had not been able to ignore the honest extent of her worry any longer. For a small eternity, she’d stood in her chamber, fully dressed and ready to go, but hesitated and felt genuinely irresolute. The longer she’d contemplated what to do, the stronger that feeling had become.

Just bursting into her chamber and possibly waking her had seemed like too presumptuous: particularly given the likelihood that Margaery was still unwell. And Sansa knew that sleep did not come easily to Margaery, especially peaceful sleep. Nevertheless, the concept of just turning around and starting her day had felt neglectful and, to some level, unbearable.

She had hesitated only for a very short moment longer before she found herself in front of the adjoining door, and pushed it open ever so slowly and carefully, cautious to not create a gap any bigger than absolutely necessary. Once she saw with her own eyes that Margaery was well, she’d be able to put her mind to rest.

The unease that had accompanied her throughout her entire hours awake was at its worst right then. It’d seemed impossible to shake, no matter how many times she’d told herself she was being ridiculous, irrational even. What gruesome thing did she expect to find? Margaery was a young and healthy woman, her complaining about something as trivial as a headache was hardly reason for entirely great concern.

Regardless of that, only when her eyes had found Margaery’s sleeping face in the dim candle light, Sansa had finally felt the relief she had so craved so much. She’d slept soundly and peacefully, no signs of distress on her features, her mouth the tiniest bit open, and not quite snoring, but breathing quite audible.

As Sansa remained on the door step a moment longer than necessary, she had been unable to suppress the smile tucking on her lips. Seeing Margaery’s face quite so relaxed, lacking any of its usually carefully upheld composure, was a fairly rare thing. The young woman behind that façade, not the Lady Tyrell, or the abolished Queen, only appeared on very limited occasion. Sansa could not recall catching such a moment more than a handful of times, but she remembered the very first time vividly. It had been during their skittish snow fight. That so very aghast look when the first heap of snow had hit her right in the face. Then and there, Margaery had looked more carefree than Sansa had ever seen her. She had giggled and cursed and lost any of her typical relentless countenance; the sight of her sleeping was not dissimilar.

Leaving her chamber and starting her day had felt a lot more tangible with the entirely too endearing picture of a peacefully sleeping Margaery in her mind. Unfortunately, that sense of relief had not lasted as long as she’d hoped. As her morning went on and she should have focused on matters at hand, her thoughts continued to drift back to the previous evening, and the image of Margaery peacefully sleeping was once again replaced with the one of her almost grey complexion. With that notion came also the thought that once Margaery awoke, she might still not be feeling well and could need something, and it did not fail to nurture the unease in Sansa.

The likely and rational concept that Margaery simply was coming down with a cold, which was overdue considering her aversion to the cold and how frozen through she had been during some of their strolls, did little to nothing to settle Sansa’s mind. Instead, it only brought along the crippling awareness that this intense concern for Margaery’s wellbeing did not have its origin in the most selfless fragment of herself.

Margaery had to be well and happy in order for Sansa herself to be. 

Somewhere along the way, she had stopped being entirely in grasp of her own emotions. A lot more times than she cared to admit, her own behaviour was merely a reaction to Margaery’s. On days where Margaery was happy, Sansa was happy - she smiled when Margaery smiled. A day where she didn’t smile, didn’t smile at her, like yesterday, felt bleak. Whenever Margaery’s mood was on a more sinister or pensive side, Sansa slipped into this as well, whether she wanted to or not.

It was a behaviour that Sansa did not know from herself, this kind of dependence on someone else, and she observed it with curiosity as well as a bit of fear.

This continuously echoing of Margaery’s sentiments was exhausting, but really only on poorer days. On a good day it was so very strangely wonderful. Sansa had not known that something as simple as laughing with someone over a bad joke or a memory could feel quite so wonderful, had not known the joy of having someone around simply because she enjoyed their presence.

Was that what it was like to have a real friend? Someone you actually enjoyed spending time with, instead of every interaction serving a purpose? Littlefinger was like a dire reminder of the exact opposite. There had been a time where she’d hung on his every word, maybe even enjoyed the attention, a time where he had been something close to a confidant, maybe a friend, but Margaery’s presence had made her realize how very superficial that all had been. 

The conversations with Margaery were unlike any she had ever had in her life so far. A continuous back and forth about trivial things, about the past, about the present, about recent events, about emotions - about life really. Going from that to the ever so calculated words she shared with Littlefinger was a harsh awakening in every way. Margaery was different, and Sansa was different when she was with her. Everything that she saw during the day, everyone she met, every little thing someone said that she found mildly interesting… it was like she could not wait to go and tell her about it. Either to hear her thoughts on it, or maybe just to make her laugh.

Seeking out Littlefinger for even the smallest bit of advice was something she had started to dread, and she ever did so still as a last resort, when it could not be avoided. Sansa longed for the day where she would not have to anymore.

He endured her silence with as persistent serenity, as always, when they were walking through the corridors side by side. They were on their way back to her chambers, or rather she was, he had just been at her heel and as unable to shake off as a stray dog. What made her presence so interesting to him, even when she was ignoring him or borderline rude, she would never understand. She walked in big steps and not once deeming him with a look. Anyone else would have been gone and deadly bored about a dozen monosyllabic replies ago, but he kept on following her. She could feel his eyes on her unwaveringly; his unwillingness to leave annoyed her to a new extent today. In all of what exhausted her in her everyday life, he was not a small factor. His presence annoyed her so very much, the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her, what he said when he spoke.

But, no, she did not want to be ungrateful. Without him, without his help, she would not be where she was right now. She knew that, and it was part of the reason why she was able to tolerate his presence; as long as he kept his distance, he was an inevitable evil she could live with.

In front of the door that led to her chambers, Sansa came to a stop and turned around, standing in the door frame. For once this seemed to catch him by surprise, because he nearly tumbled into her.

“Would you excuse me, Lord Baelish?” she asked in a friendly but dismissive tone.

He frowned. “Is everything alright?” he inquired, sounding genuinely concerned. 

“I’m afraid I woke up with a headache today and it has not quite ceased yet,” she offered him as an explanation.

It was not even a lie. Her head felt a little foggy, but it was more of a growing tiredness than a headache. Sansa had lain awake long into the night. For one part to blame on the fact that she’d went to bed a lot earlier as her own rhythm was still used to; for almost a month now she had not gone to bed earlier than midnight, usually dragged it out to the point where she had been positively exhausted. The fresh air helped to get that point where she felt overdue for some sleep, as did the wine, and of course Margaery.

But Margaery had excused herself quite so shortly after dinner last night and the usual new rush of fresh energy failed to materialize. Sansa had tried to make the best of it and figured that a couple of more hours of sleep would do her quite good for a change, but had not taken her not-at-all tired mind into the equation. The food laid too heavy in her stomach and the concern for Margaery in her mind. And it was for quite a while now that Sansa refused to twist and turn in bed during a sleepless night, so instead she’d sat down with a book until hours later her eyes had finally gotten some of the longed-for heaviness.

“That’s unfortunate,” he said, but sounded understanding. “I have noticed you seemed almost preoccoupied today, but did not want to say anything. Let’s just hope you’re not coming down with anything.”

“Nothing that a bit of rest won’t cure,” she replied.

He hummed and nodded. “If I might suggest, a nightly walk in the fresh air can do wonders.”

Her eyes did not falter, and she denied herself the instinct to glare at him, chose to simply ignore the comment. Was she supposed to be surprised that he knew she and Margaery regularly strolled through a nightly Winterfell? She’d known him long enough to be aware that his spies were on every corner, even though they were barely noticeable.

But what of it? It was hardly dangerous. Or even relevant for that matter. It was a known fact beneath the servants that she was a lot of times not asleep until the middle of the night. She had taken walks at night by herself before and it certainly was not unusual for a handmaiden to accompany her lady. Even something silly as a snow fight was maybe not completely appropriate for someone of her stance, but for sure far from being scandalous.

“The weather is not exactly right for that, now is it?”

The storm had not ceased even the tiniest bit, the snow was still falling and the wind was palpable and visible in the flicker of the lights even inside. Even if Margaery felt better, there was no way they’d be as unable to leave the keep as much as they had been yesterday.

“Indeed, it is a quite persistent weather that we have right now,” he acknowledged.

Sansa nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I need a bit of rest.”

Excusing herself to withdraw was something that she didn’t do ordinarily. It was something she had not done once ever since Jon had left her in charge. In each day there was a time for rest and for work, and Sansa did not confound those two. On several occasions people had told her how much they admired her sense of responsibility, her intransigence. She hoped that her straying from that would go broadly unnoticed, knew very well that any kind of unusual behaviour was always reason for gossip.

Needless to say, rest was the last thing on her mind, but she could not just let Littlefinger of all people behind without any kind of explanation, and rather had him thinking that she was the one who was unwell, as opposed to Margaery. Letting him know that she wanted to check on her because she was worried felt too personal to share with him.

Her decision to just for once go against her principles and routine had fallen shortly after bidding goodbye to the pantler, when she’d accepted she would be of no use to anyone or anything until she saw with her own eyes that Margaery was feeling better. After all, it was simply bad-mannered that she had not checked on her sooner, that was what you did when someone expressed discomfort, right?

Admittedly, the consideration of merely interrupting her daily work to go to Margaery and spend some time with her was not entirely new. Not by a long shot. Today the urge was just more insistent than usual, and she felt to have a fairly good reason for it. The idea to do so, however, had been with her again and again within the last weeks. Somewhere along the way, it had started to bother Sansa, having to forgo Margaery’s company for the bigger part of her day and she did not want to wait for night time for her presence, her input, her smile, her words. With Margaery around, Sansa was sure that even the most dull or draining days would hold a lot more intrigue and promise.

The door to the corridor was safely closed behind her and it did not take her more than three or four deep breaths before her feet carried her almost on their own to the door that led to Margaery’s chamber.

She brushed away what was left of her hesitation and knocked on the door. Upon pushing it open, the first thing she noticed was the dim light and the comfortable warmth that streamed towards her. Every other day, Margaery’s room was bright with daylight and freezing cold because she pulled the window cover back in order to let as much natural light as possible in. Sansa had questioned it only once, and Margaery had told her that she preferred cold over darkness. Now, several candles had been lit throughout the room and Margaery was not in her usual spot by the window, but had moved her reading spot to the fire place.

With her back facing her, a look of expectant anticipation on Margaery’s features shifted into the warm smile that she seemed to reserve only for Sansa, when she turned her head, and as always it caused a similar one to appear on Sansa’s face.

“Coming to see if I’m still alive?”

Almost instantly Sansa could tell that that this certain spark had returned to Margaery’s eyes, the one which had been lacking last night and after that came immediately a wave of guilt that rolled over her, even though she knew Margaery was only joking; she should have come to check on her earlier.

“I considered waking you this morning,” Sansa stated almost shyly as she stepped further into the room. “But then I thought you might need some rest.”

In a swift movement, Margaery closed the book and lowered it into her lap, one of her hands holding it in place, while slow steps brought Sansa forward until she stood in front of Margaery right next to the warmth of the fire.

“Honestly, I’m so embarrassed,” she admitted in a low almost bashful tone. “I sincerely do not remember the last time  I overslept.”

“It’s not like you missed anything important,” Sansa returned with a shrug and gestured to the window. “At the rate it is snowing, I reckon Winterfell will have disappeared under a big pile of snow by tomorrow morning.”

Margaery chuckled and Sansa noted that she did indeed look a lot better than she had the previous night. While she still had some undeniable tiredness in her eyes and her face looked a bit narrower than it typically did, her complexion was fresh once again and not as grey as it had been.

Hands clasped tightly at the level of her stomach as she asked the question that had been burning in her mind throughout the morning. “I hope you are feeling better today?”

“A lot,” Margaery confirmed her with a steady nod. “I’m not quite able to shake the feeling that my head is filled with feathers, but that will pass.”

Not entirely satisfied with that answer, Sansa shifted her weight from foot to the other. “Maybe you should try and get some rest.”

A considerable amount of amusement flashed behind Margaery’s eyes and she looked around herself with feigned confusion and then back at Sansa. “As opposed to the straining activities I am currently participating in?”

Not yet at a point where she could appreciate Margaery’s light-hearted jokes, Sansa furrowed her brows. Yes, she did look better than last night, but to be quite honest that was not saying all that much, when Sansa recalled how miserable she had appeared then. The sound of her voice might have been back to that light melodic tone, and her smile ever so firmly in place again, but a second look Sansa wondered if that was maybe more for her benefit than Margaery’s sincere state.  Something still felt off, and while that maybe was just the remains of a night with an agonizing headache, there was also the possibility that Margaery was not feeling  as well as she claimed.

“I’d feel better if you’d let the Maester take a look at you.”

“I must really look horrible if you are quite that insistent.”

A smile played on Margaery’s lips relentlessly and Sansa could not help herself but return it. Of course, that had not been what she wanted to imply. If anything, Margaery looked as fresh as ever. She wore earthy colours that went so very well with her complexion and highlighted the soft brown of her hair. It made her look warm and soft. No, she did not look sick - tired, yes, but not unwell per se.

“I do appreciate the concern, but I promise you it’s nothing. My father had these weather-dependent headaches for as long as I can remember. If anything, I’m lucky that I was spared them for as long as I have been. Sending for the Maester would be wasting his time, your own, and mine,” that charming crooked smile appeared “– you know, if I had anything important to do with my time.”

With that gentle determination in Margaery’s face and tone, Sansa knew better than to insist or argue. She had seen enough of that to know a discussion was useless, even when she failed to understand were this stubborn reluctance came from.

The lightness returning to Margaery’s words helped clear the last bits of concern from her mind. What had thrown her off last night was not only Margaery’s appearance, but even more so her behaviour, and it had not just been the worry for her physical wellbeing that had kept her up last night and distracted throughout this morning. The possibility that Sansa might have done or said anything to upset her weighed a lot heavier.

Through the years, Sansa had grown a thick skin in regard to what other people thought of her. Someone being angry with her was nothing that gave her sleepless nights anymore. In her current position, it was nothing that she could let herself ponder about. Not everyone liked everything she did or said; that was just the way it was. Finding a way to deal with that was something Sansa considered as one of the traits which had grown considerably within the last few years.

There had been a certain kind of rejection, maybe even annoyance, in Margaery’s tone last night, just before she had withdrawn herself. With anyone else, Sansa would have brushed that off within the same breath, but for some reason the idea of Margaery being upset, even angry with her, had turned out as the one thing she couldn’t disregard or put to rest as easily. She had not wasted time wondering why that was; So many things were different when it came to Margaery.

In her sudden need to hold onto something without anything being in reach, Sansa’s gloved hands tensed into one another.

“Can I ask you something?”

The good expanse of feeling on the edge must have been audible in her voice, because even though Margaery promptly nodded, the tiniest bit of worry came over her still smiling face like a shadow.

“I did not upset you in any way last night, did I?”

Gentle eyes full of confusion blinked at her a couple of times. “What gives you that idea?”

Again, Sansa hesitated as she started to realize how little she had thought her idea of addressing this all the way through. The absence of the expected no or yes answer, and the counter question instead, she was not prepared for. Hence, she felt a certain nervousness rising in her chest, her fingers flexed even tighter as her eyes slowly darted to the ground and then back to Margaery’s face.

“I know that I can be difficult sometimes. I don’t exactly wear my heart on my sleeve.”

Ever so slowly, Margaery’s gaze softened into something that looked a lot like compassion. For a moment, it seemed like she maybe wanted to reply, but as always, Margaery knew when to endure silence. Unsure whether that silence was a good or a bad thing this time around, Sansa forced herself to keep her eyes on Margaery’s face as she considered her next words.

“I’m not good at talking about things that concern myself.”

The grand all-overwhelming anxiety that came with speaking these words was not logical - this was by no means barring her deepest and darkest secrets. Admitting to the fact that she was reserved was certainly not the great revelation that it felt like. It had to be quite evident, even for someone not half as observant as Margaery, that Sansa was not someone who just shared her innermost feelings.

Talking about the things that occupied her mind, that scared, worried or bothered her, kept her awake at night -like Margaery managed so effortlessly- was not something that Sansa did. Occasionally, Sansa wondered when exactly this certain trait had manifested itself, or if maybe it had always been part of her. Either way, it was not something she could just shake off or break through.

Before Margaery, she had not had friends, not in the literal sense at least. None of the people that surrounded her in her every day live fell into that category, even when there were so many who loved or cared for her, who’d willingly die for her. No matter how great her trust was in any of them, there was no one she felt she could just casually talk to about her most private sentiments. 

Being left alone with her thoughts and confronting problems and worries on her own was not something that particularly bothered Sansa. Only it had the unfortunate effect of starting to rely on herself first and foremost.  Contemplating a thought, a problem, with herself meant not having to deal with difference of opinion or objections. More importantly so, as long as she kept an issue to herself, it meant not having to make herself vulnerable. People could not use against you what they did not know.

After the argument with Arya, Margaery had told her that she could not just dismiss people so easily just because they disagreed with her. While Sansa knew that she was right, it was not something she could just change in a blink. Last night she had done it again; instead of telling Margaery that the whole matter of Arya overwhelmed her more than she could say, she had settled for avoidance and changed the subject.

It had to be frustrating for Margaery to always be on the receiving end of vague answers or avoidance, but Sansa simply did not know how to make that transition.

“I know that I can be dismissive and I’m afraid that I might have been last night.” Sansa denied herself the urge to advert her eyes. “I was wondering if that upset you.”

Margaery considered what to say carefully. “It’s not my favourite trait about you,” she acknowledged finally. “But I think I understand it.”

While an answer to her question, Sansa still felt as insecure about it as she had before.

“I’m sorry.” Sansa pressed out her fingers and flexed so tightly they were starting to tingle. “Please believe me that I don’t do so intentionally. Sometimes it’s just hard to speak about these things.”

Soft eyes kept looking at Sansa for a long moment, not showing any sign of annoyance or exasperation like she had feared, if anything they seemed thoughtful. With scarcely a shake of her head, Margaery stood up and took three steps until she was standing directly in front of Sansa. Her hands reached out and captured Sansa’s entwined hands with her own as if she instinctively knew she had to keep Sansa from taking a step back.

Suddenly finding herself at such a proximity with Margaery was comforting and upsetting all at the same time; it grounded Sansa as much as it made her terribly nervous. The attempt to reassure herself by simply focusing on those familiar and comforting eyes had the opposite effect. Instead of the comfort of the familiar, for a brief moment Sansa seemed to forget how to breath and her heart was hammering wildly in her chest. The fire from the chimney rapidly started to feel a thousand times warmer. It felt so poignant and Sansa could not help but advert her gaze to their joined hands. When she relaxed her hands and allowed Margaery to take them into hers, for a moment she wished she had been gloveless, as Margaery was.

This was quite literally Margaery stepping through the wall Sansa had put around herself, and that was as scary as much as she desperately hoped for it. She wanted to let her in, she only had no idea what came after that.

“I’m the one who is sorry,” Margaery declared then. “I am someone who processes things by talking about them, and maybe sometimes I forget that this is not the method of choice for everyone. I’m not going to lie, I did feel a bit frustrated with you just last night. However…I think that in the end, that sentiment had a lot more to do with myself than you, and most likely my blinding headache did not help the situation.”

Sansa stiffened a little when she felt Margaery’s hand on her cheek, her skin seemed to be burning under the gentle touch, but Margaery’s fingers were cool against her skin as she carefully tilted her head up, so she could look her in the eye.

“You are entitled to the way that you feel, and to share things at your own time. Please don’t ever feel like you have to apologize for that.”

The assuring words from Margaery confused Sansa a great deal. If she had been convinced of one thing to be true, then the standstill of their slowly growing friendship bothered Margaery. Whenever she had talked and shared, Sansa had listened carefully, had learned so many little details, starting from her childhood up to the travels that had led her to Winterfell, and so many other things in between. Margaery being annoyed with her inability to emulate just that had been a given fact for her.

But perhaps this sentiment had never been so much about Margaery in the first place, and more about herself? Was it possible that she herself was frustrated with the standstill of their friendship, so very frustrated with her own incapability to make that leap of faith?

If she could not trust Margaery, then who?  The ever so kind and friendly Margery, who managed to make even the most daily trivial things so much more enjoyable. 

“I appreciate that,” Sansa acknowledged with a shy smile. “And I’m very thankful you have quite so much patience with me.”

Margaery’s hand dropped from Sansa’s face and she slowly drew both her hands along Sansa’s arms as if she wanted to warm her up, and it had exactly that effect; Sansa felt warm and safe.

“I think a big part of what is so intriguing about you is only slowly learning more, layer for layer. A little bit like peeling an onion.” Margaery tilted her head to the side and her expression was so genuine, Sansa did not know if she had ever felt so very cherished. “Take your time, sweet girl. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

“I’m really glad that you came here.” The words that had been on her mind so very long eventually rolled a lot easier off Sansa’s lips than she expected. “Back in King’s Landing I thought that you being there had made my whole existence there more bearable, but if possible it is even more important this time around.”

Margaery’s smile grew a little broader, if possible, and the grip of her fingers was once again firm on Sansa’s. “I’m confident that you would have done just fine both times without me.”

Sansa felt that was only party true, and while it was of course not a bad thing to not be reliant on somebody else’s presence, given the choice she would always want Margaery by her side. “Maybe. But I doubt it would have been half as enjoyable.”

One more time, Margaery crooked her head in that affectionate way with an adoring smile. “Come here.”

For a short moment, Sansa felt reluctance when Margaery pulled her hands from Sansa’s, but then quite before she had wrapped her head around it, found herself enclosed in a warm and comforting hug. It was not a considerably tight hold that Margaery had on her, and it loosened a lot sooner than Sansa would have preferred, but for the short moment that it lasted, it was as wonderful as Margaery. Her warmth and smell filled a gap within herself that Sansa had not even realized was there. All of her thoughts slowed into comfortable stagnation until her mind was completely blank for the first time today, possibly even longer.

When Margaery eventually released her it felt too soon, she felt almost cold, but at the same time she felt strangely content.

“I’m glad I’m here as well.” Margaery sunk back into her chair and clasped the book from before in her lap. “If only because the thought of you playing Mia by yourself is such a pitiful one...”

That had to be a certain kind of a gift, Sansa thought, to make that transition from a heavy and emotive mood quite so seamlessly back into light conversation. As easy as if she was reading from a book, Margaery never failed to recognize when the mood became too heavy and making that switch was necessary. It was a talent she greatly valued in Margaery.

“Indeed,” Sansa nodded. “I’d prefer to play with you. Even if that means never winning ever again.”

“I’m relieved to hear you have finally accepted your inferiority,” Margaery shot back. “I was starting to think you might have lost your grip on reality.”

“I’m afraid that is as firmly in place as ever.” Sansa sighed and felt that was her cue. “Which is why, I ought to get back to it I’m afraid.”

Margaery nodded and absent-mindedly picked on the fabric of her shawl for a moment. “You’re sense of responsibility is astonishing,” she said looking a little lost in the thought, before her eyes focused on Sansa with adoration, like it was endearing to her that Sansa was so very responsible and so eager to do the right thing. That was yet again replaced with a hint of mischief and a smile. “You don’t suppose that you could allow yourself a break from that today, do you?”

It was not as if the thought was not intriguing, and she had already fallen out of her routine today anyway, so what was the harm, right? Still the more of rational and responsible side of her mind could not be tuned out quite so easily.

“I have an impossible quantity of paper work that is waiting on my desk,” she said with a sigh and only the smaller part of her still hoped that if she voiced those last few arguments against what she so very badly wanted to do, her mind would catch up with her.

Opposite her Margaery, seemed to be a blink away from either rolling her eyes or pouting at her words, and it was not like Sansa did not understand that. It was plain obvious that that even with a thousand books, sitting around by herself all day long had to be so very, very boring for someone as sociable as Margaery.

Undeniably, Sansa would have rather stayed with Margaery, but the voice of reason was not something she could shake off quite so easily - even if it felt deeply intriguing to, just for once, not do what she was supposed to.

“What would you want to do right now, if you could?” Ever so gently, Margaery’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “If you did not have to worry about your duties, about the weather, about anything.”

Recognizing very well where Margaery tried to lead her with this, Sansa smiled and decided to humour her. Leaning back against the wall, she tucked her hands behind herself. The very first thing that came to mind was what Margaery had suggested the previous night, when she had gotten that longing look in her eyes, that had prevailed her discomfort and distraction for a only a brief moment.

“I’d take you out riding.”

“I don’t hate that idea.” There was hardly ever a time where Margaery was not smiling, but Sansa did not think that she had ever seen her quite so captivated. “I do, however, still have my doubt about the size of the stallions you claimed to have.”

With a good-natured roll of her eyes, Sansa shook her head. “I do not lie about things that could quite so easily be discovered as a lie,” she assured in a permissive way.

The spur of a challenge returned to Margaery’s eyes and of course she could not help herself but tease Sansa a bit further. “So, you do lie on other occasions?”

As shy as Sansa had felt with Margaery standing right in front of her only minutes ago, with her eyes firmly and steadily on her now, the familiar delightful feeling that came with this certain exchange of words returned to her chest and spread out like drinking hot wine. “You said it yourself,” she said with a shrug. “I’m not a good liar. Barely even a decent one.”

That crooked smile appeared on Margaery’s lips as she was the first one to advert her eyes and stare into the flames that crackled in the fireplace. For only a second, she seemed lost in thought before she took this game of pretend she had started further. “And where would we ride on those grand stallions?”

“If it was just this afternoon?” She thought out loud. “Maybe to the Wolf’s Wood or some of the northern houses. Nothing here is really in the distance of a day’s ride.”

Where to go first, was the more pressing question, Sansa thought. There was so much she would have loved to show Margaery, so much she had not seen herself, even. For a brief moment, Sansa’s own eyes drifted into the distance and she could almost see it. The wide green hills, just her and Margaery riding through them, Margaery laughing as she spurred her horse as she challenged her for a race.

Their eyes almost simultaneously focused back on the other and they shared a smile.

“If we had longer than that, the possibilities would be endless. There is so much in Westeros we could go and see,” Sansa carried the thought further. Twice already she had travelled on the King’s Road and both times she had been so preoccupied with other things, that she had not been able to spare any attention on her surroundings. Should she get the chance again, that would be different, she promised herself. “The Eyrie is as impressive as it is intimidating, given that you do not have a problem with heights.”

Margaery shook her head with a smile. “I don’t.”

“Then you have to see it,” Sansa declared enthusiastically. “And you will have to show me Highgarden and the Reach.”

Only at the way in which Margaery’s smile dimmed, Sansa realized what she had just said and wished she could take the words back. It was fathomable that the mention of her home upset Margaery. After all, it was as far out of reach for her now as the sky above them. Sansa wished she could have said the right words to lighten that feeling for her, but she did not have any. There were many things you could replace in your life, but you would always only have one home and one family.

“You would adore it,” Margaery promised nevertheless, and did not allow their delightful musings to be interrupted by yearning or sombre memories; not before long, pure and almost unaltered enthusiasm was back and replaced the sad reflection from only a moment ago. “We will have to go and see the wall. I’ve always wanted to see it.”

Sansa had never shared that excitement for the wall that other people had, that staggering need to see it. Ever since she had seen it with her own eyes, she validated in that sentiment. The greatest structure built by man, yes probably. For a lot of people, especially people from the south, this vision of the wall became a lot more glorified, a lot grander than the reality was. No wonder, when you read all those grand tales about it. From the brave brotherhood of the night’s watch, to the superiority of the wall; once Sansa had gotten her hand on a novel about the star-crossed love story of a brother of the night’s watch and a Targaryen princess.

The almost wistful expression Margaery wore showed that it was no different for her. She believed the illusion as well. “After all you read and hear about it… it holds this certain pull.”

“I’m afraid the reality would disappoint you,” Sansa returned soberly.

“How so?”

“It’s not half as grand awe-inspiring place you probably imagine it to be. Life there is harsh. Castle Black is old and cold, drifty like a tent.” Her memory went to the first time she had seen those great brave men of the night’s watch. “The men who serve there are not the grand hero’s they maybe once were. They are crude, as harsh as the world surrounding them.”

Not quite willing to let go of her illusion, Margaery looked at her with drawn up eyebrows. “Are you basing this on what you have been told or have you actually been there?”

“I’ve been there,” Sansa replied. “Castle Black was where I was reunited with Jon.”

“How is it you are telling just me about this now?”

For her standard, and if it had not been for that unrelenting smile betraying her, Margaery looked positively wrought up, and that startled Sansa for a short moment.  That was not information she actively wanted to keep from Margaery, only had not deemed it all that interesting.

“I did not think it would be of great interest to you.”

 “But you did think the various crop stocks of Winterfell were?” It was a bold statement; had those words come from anyone else, Sansa might have found them insulting. Yet, Margaery managed a tone that was light and even endearing, like she found the way Sansa’s mind worked utterly charming. “Is it as magnificent as they say it is?”

“It is very tall, if that is what you mean,” she said and shrugged.

Scepticism spread over Margaery’s face. “You don’t sound as impressed as one ought to be by the greatest structure built by men.”

“Admiring the architecture of it was not exactly on the forefront of my mind,” Sansa returned, and only upon seeing reluctance in Margaery’s expression, she realized the sharpness her tone held. With a deep breath she caught herself and managed to focus. Margaery was interested to hear about the wall, it was not like she had to mention any of the things that had happened prior to her arrival at Castle Black, even when for Sansa those occurrences were inseparably intertwined in her memory.  “The view from the top, however, is indeed magnificent.”

Yearning sparked in Margaery’s eyes. “That must be glorious.”

It was. Only the memory surrounding the moment did not feel quite as glorious. One night, within her first couple of days at Castle Black, sometime around the early morning hours, she had shrieked awake from a nightmare, one that had felt so very real and that Sansa remembered so vividly even today; it brought the sensation of an ice cold hand gripping the back of her neck. For some reason, Jon had been by her side only a moment later and held her inconsolable shaking form; maybe she had screamed in her sleep. It had taken her forever to calm down, and because she had refused to go back to sleep, Jon had suggested a walk instead then.  

If it had not been for the enthrallment that Margaery looked at her with, she would have very much dropped the topic right there and then, but instead thoroughly began searching her memory for details more related to the world surrounding her in the memory, as opposed to how she had felt.

“The wall itself is massive, when you are up close it looks more like a massive cliff instead of something that was build, and from the bottom, it really does look like it touches the sky, just like you read about it. Jon told me that it takes hours to climb the stairs to the top and that is why they have those wooden cages that pull you up.”

For a moment, Sansa wondered if any of what she was saying was even all that interesting, but Margaery seemed to hang on her every word, so she continued steadily.

“I would have never stepped a foot in there if Jon had not been there, and even then it was frightening at best. The ground and everything on it gets smaller and smaller and you cannot allow yourself for even a moment to think about how safe the whole contraption really is or you lose your mind. When we finally got to the top, it was…cold.”

Sansa smiled a little, remembering how Jon had tried to convince her to cover herself in his cloak once he saw the bibbering freezing mess she had turned into. Maybe he had regretted his idea to bring her up there just then, but for her, the freezing cold winds that seemed to be pulling and pushing her finally had her fully awake from her nightmare, and not just of the one she’d had that night.

“It was so very, very windy. I had to hold on to the banister, because I was afraid the wind would just blow me off the edge. And once the sun rose…well, the view is breath taking. We caught a clear day and it seemed like all of Westeros was visible from up there. Everything was bathed in these magnificent colours it looks so very peaceful, much more peaceful than it really is.”

Sometime during her retelling, Margaery had leaned forward in her chair and had her chin resting on her knuckles, her eyes were shining and mesmerized like those of a young child. Sansa supposed that this was how they all must have looked when they were kids and old Nan told them of her stories.

“I’m so envious right now I can barely contain myself,” she declared once Sansa had finished.

Sansa chuckled. “I thought I’d never see the day where you would envy me for anything but my hair.”

Eyes lowered in that certain way one more time, before a bolder expression returned to them. “There are so many things I envy you for, you have no idea.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “For example?”

Margaery smiled softly and batted her eyes. “Are you fishing for compliments?”

“No,” Sansa shook her head and replied truthfully. “It’s just that I do not feel particularly worthy of envy.”

Margaery shook her head. “Sansa,” she started. “Are you really that blind? Look at you. At who you are. Look at where you are. Where you have arrived. Only three years ago, you were this innocent, naïve girl. A hostage, reliant on other people’s mercy. And now you are ruling over the North. You are in your home and you have your family with you. Tell me again what about all of this is not worth of envy.”

“It all looks a bit different from where I am standing.” The instinct to pull herself from this conversation was almost overwhelming, but Sansa forced herself to have it, to speak her thoughts this time around. “Ruling certainly is not all it is said to be. Half of the time it’s either little dull things that I have to take care of because nobody else will. And the other half are these all overwhelming matters where I have to make decisions that feel like I should not be making them.”

Because, as Margaery had pointed out, not too long ago she was this stupid, naïve girl, and deep down she did not feel much different. Only she had learned to not show or voice any of her insecurities.

“I get that it can be a burden,” Margaery acknowledged. “But certainly one that is to be preferred to being without any power?”

Of course it was. She’d take any day of making decisions that caused her sleepless nights instead of fear for her life and body keeping her up. “I am aware that I’m complaining from a very high level,” she allowed and then couldn’t help feeling so very silly. “Do you get now why I don’t like talking about myself? Stuff like this comes out and I feel stupid.”

Margaery shook her head in a berating way. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t apologize for your feelings. Saying you don’t get to feel bad because you have so much, is like saying you don’t get to be happy because there are other people who have more than you do.”

“But you said—”

“I said that I envy you,” Margaery interrupted her. “That does not mean I don’t understand the concept of not all what glitters is gold.”

“No, it certainly isn’t.”

Margaery playfully rolled her eyes. “And really you could sit on the iron throne and in the end all my envy will always come back to your gorgeous hair.”

There it was one more time, that special talent to deflate a tense situation.

“One day your hair will have grown all the way back and you will start to remember all the annoying things that come with it.” Sansa predicted and then paused briefly. “And one day we will ride to the wall together.”

The longer she thought about it, the more joy Sansa found in the idea of taking Margaery there; letting her see the sheer endless widths of the North along the way, and have that journey quite literally cumulating with the mesmerizing view from the top of the world. Merely the image on its own felt excruciatingly beautiful. Had it been possible, Sansa would have ordered to have the horses saddled within the same hour.

A deeply melancholic look graced Margaery’s face, and she sunk a little deeper into her chair, her fingers brushed through the fur she had thrown across her thighs. “But until then you have to get back to your duties?”

What was left of her determination to do so disappeared into thin air right there and then. Going from mapping out even just the idea of a journey through the realms of the seven kingdoms, back to the letters, lists and reports, felt impossible. The world would not stop if for one afternoon she did not do what she was supposed to. With that thought in mind Sansa pushed herself from the wall, where she had stood throughout the past hour with the prospect of having to be on her way soon enough, but instead of excusing herself she pulled the chair from the vanity towards the fire sunk into it, angled herself so she could look at Margaery.

“No,” she said firmly. “Until then, I have a new game for us to play.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses of what game Sansa has in mind? I'll say this much: We have seen this game being played on the show.
> 
> I apologize for not being able to update in my normal weekly rhythm. This chapter, as well as the next one have been incredibly hard to get to a point where I was happy with them.  
> When I started posting this story, I was convinced that I had the complete story finished, would only need a bit of polishing on some chapters, but all in all ready to be posted. Somehow that does not work quite as planned. Editing always ends with me adding many many words, creating new scenes or even whole chapters. By now I'm pretty certain that I will exceed the original length of 120k words by a bit. :) So I can only hope for your patience when the updates become a bit less frequent... but it does mean that there will be more for you to read in the end. :)
> 
> Anyway. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this break from all the angst of the last chapter.  
> As always, I'm dying to hear what you think - please let me know!


	9. Chapter Nine

Margaery had grown up in a long summer. Summer child, her grandmother had called her sometimes. A term of endearment that rang very true; she was a child of Highgarden, where the summer seemed to last forever and it was almost always sunny and warm. It was all she had known for the longest time, and she loved it deeply. As a small child, she had never understood the adults who had complained about the weather being too warm. For her, warm weather meant being able to go outside, going swimming, laying in the sun, riding through the reach, and tying floral wreaths. Why a hot, sunny day evoked just the opposite with her grandmother, who usually withdrew to the very inner part of Highgarden, a place where it was always a bit too dark and cool for her own liking until night time, had been a mystery to her.

Once she’d grown older and had no longer been allowed to do quite as she pleased, she had started to understand some of the reasoning behind it, but that had not once kept her from smiling when the warm glare of the sun streaming into her window had woken her and ushered in a day of high temperatures. The heat did not bother her, even days that other people called unpleasantly hot she was still eager to spend outside. Most of the times, underneath a large canopy, who’s shade had offered some pleasant relief, where she’d sipped on chilled drinks and from where she’d had been able to cherish the surroundings of the gardens; how very beautiful and alive everything appeared in the bright sunshine.

Night-time on those searing days had been even grander and would forever be part of her most beloved memories. Always with those marvellous warm winds that surrounded her even in the dark, that sometime during the night got to the point where the light clothes of the day just became the tiniest bit too brisk. She had spent a lot of those nights sitting outside in the gardens until the early morning hours, when the first streams of the rising sun appeared on the horizon; some of them entailing deep, meaningful conversations, others way too much wine, laughter, and fun. It was impossible to forget those hot humid nights and how fantastic they had been. The way it was too warm to sleep until long after midnight, before it finally started to cool down the tiniest bit.

While the walls of Highgarden were thick, and it had usually taken several hot days in a row for the heat to reach the inside, once it had, there was no relenting; the stones seemed to store the heat like an oven. She had spent nights like these in her bed on top of her sheets, unbothered by her inability to sleep. She had used it for reading sometimes, but mostly thinking, and the one or other waking dream, all while enjoying the smell of lime and eucalyptus as it had radiated of the wet rags which had been spread throughout her chamber and supposedly made the air cooler.

There had also been occasional nights where she had not been on her own. More often than not a consequence of a night in the gardens with too much wine and laughter, but so wonderful nevertheless. It was like the warm humid air had made lingering attraction even greater, the most innocent touches so much more intimate and intense. Fingertips that drew over an already overheated body left a burning trail wherever they moved; every touch felt silken, and was just nearly too much, had it not been for the growing arousal that it brought along. So many times where she was left trembling on top of the silken sheets in spite of an all embracing heat, staring into someone else’s eyes in the darkness of a room, while bodies moved in unison with each other and created an ardour that seemed almost excruciating - all erupting in that one grand moment of final relief. And after hours of passionate endeavours, tucking herself into a pair of arms and covering two slightly shivering bodies with thin silken covers as finally the cool of the night streamed in through the open windows.

Margaery missed summer more than she could possibly say, everything about it: missed her light dresses, the long days, the blue sky, the soft breeze that made an intolerable temperature a little better, the thunderstorms that lightened up the sky, the feel and smell of summer rain, colourful roses that grew nowhere like they did in Highgarden. She’d loved sleeping with an open window, being woken by natural daylight and the noise of birds singing in the trees; mornings where the air was still so fresh and cold, even if it was already foreseeable that the day would be nearly unbearably hot.

The reality of winter was just like Margaery imagined it, and she did not like it very much.

Even though, to her own surprise, she had learned to love a few things about it. Like the comfort of sitting in front of a warm fire until the middle of the night, or the comfortable feeling of waking in a freezing room while still safely tucked into the nice and warm cosiness of a bed. Heavy steps taken in the snow made the most wonderful sound. Returning from the cold back into a warm room that was poured in candle light had to be one of the best sensations in the world; just like warming yourself with a cup of spiced hot wine, or a bowl of chicken broth. A sight she inexplicitly cherished was seeing bare trees covered in snow; the way that inch-high layer covered even the most delicate branches looked like a deliberate work of art.

On the whole, even when she had not denied herself to see some of the positive sides, Margaery felt that those few amiable aspects would never manage to outweigh the negatives. She hated the cold so very, very much. Could not stand the several layers that restricted her range of motion, but that she had to put on nonetheless in order to keep herself from freezing to death. Wearing gloves annoyed her, as they limited the sensation of her hands, but once she went without, her fingers turned stiff and numb even sitting in front of a fire. Her feet seemed to have turned into two clumps of ice permanently, and not even the best material in her shoes was able to change that.

Winter also weighed on her mood heavier than she had ever thought possible, with its grey skies, the almost colourless landscape and the short and dark days. Her whole life, Margaery had been a cheerful person, but that general lack of daylight afflicted her whether she liked it or not. On most days she managed to drag herself from those all too adverse thoughts by pulling the window covers open despite the icy air that they kept out. All in order to have at least some natural light in her day. And that did help. A little.

On days where circumstances, such as a storm, forced her to keep them closed, the darkness and the comfortable warmth that spread over the room made it very easy to sleep in. Without any indicator as daylight or growing noises from the outside, it was not exactly hard to lose track of time. It could have been the middle of the night still or already afternoon, with only the light offered by the three candles on her night table, there was no way of telling.

Margaery blamed her oversleeping on just that. She’d awoken a couple of times during the early morning hours, but influenced by the darkness, the warmth surrounding her, along with the soft howling of the storm -and the fact that she still felt so very, very tired- she had closed her eyes again, allowing herself to slip back into that soft world of sleep, and the comfort her dreams offered.

Only after she had slept through half of the day already, her body decided that it she had rested quite enough. When the first concrete thoughts of the day crept its way into her conscious, she could not ignore them any longer. The growing noises from the corridor adjacent to her room left no question that it was not night time anymore.  Still, for a small eternity, Margaery had not found it in herself to get out of bed. Instead she had just lain there, staring at the ceiling as thoughts and memories as to what had occurred yesterday very slowly rolled back into her mind.

It took her some time until she finally swung her legs out of bed and sat on the edge of it. Luckily, the emotions that came with the memories were still very subdued. As she let her legs dangle and drew the covers over her shoulders, cherishing the warmth a moment longer, it had all felt surprisingly endurable. She had felt rested, albeit a bit bleary from sleeping quite so long, and her mind had still been too slow to make sense of all the thoughts and questions that rolled through it, but to her relief nothing had seemed quite so dramatic anymore as it had the night before.

Even after a few splashes of fresh water into her face, that comfortable numbness had remained. The musings about what she had learned, and possible strategies how to deal with it had started to become more frequent once again, but there was still no sign of the all overwhelming helplessness and passiveness. Somewhere during the night, or even in her process of slowly waking up, she had come to a point, which was maybe not acceptance, but certainly a lot closer to rationalism.

A hint of resignation as well perhaps, acceptance of the reality. That helped. There was only so much she could do to influence anything right now, and she was rational enough to know not to tilt at windmills. In light of that, her near desperation from the previous day felt almost ridiculous.

Her whole mind seemed to have numbed down a considerable amount, and that felt, after the agony she had fallen asleep with, so very grand. Whether that sense she’d almost dared to call disinterest was caused by her inner storm passing, or because she was right in the centre of it and her life was flying quite so fast before her own eyes and  she could not see it, Margaery did ponder about. Margaery had become so very good at not thinking about certain things.

Very eager to keep this detachment from all her worries going for as long as possible, Margaery’d left the book she’d been reading – A Manuscript of Sieges and Crusades – untouched on her night table and instead buried herself in a collection of Northern poems and blessings. A very, very mellow reading, but exactly what she needed just then. Something to keep her mind occupied, and from wandering, but at the same time not too heavy in topic. Mood lifting one liners that held just the right amount of corny wisdom, that did not require much actual thinking.

May the cup of your life be overflowing with happiness and health.

May the ship of your life never get off course and may the winds always come from the right direction.

May a kind sense, spread through your eyes; gracefully and noble. Like the sun as it rises from the fog.

It was not great literature. Not by far. Something she would have avoided on any other day. She loved books that quickened the mind, those that had such amazing words that stayed with you for a whole while after reading them, that made you think, laugh, cry.

Throughout her whole life, she had had the habit of giving a whole number of pages little markings or notes. She’d underline words she did not know yet, mark passages that moved her or made her think, ceased the edge on pages for parts she deemed worthy of re-reading. It was a habit that had maddened her grandmother beyond belief. With any books of Sansa’s she did not dare to do such a thing, but even if she had, this book was quite likely the one where she had the smallest impulse to do so. In what had to be about a thousand short verses, there were maybe five that she found touching, or worth of remembering. The more awake her mind became the closer she was to just abandoning the book altogether. The handful of memorable words were not worth the pages and pages of insipid ones.

Sansa checking in on her shortly after noon had come as a pleasant surprise. Not only because with the knock on the door she had feared yet another visit from Lord Baelish; even more so because Sansa offered just the right amount of distraction that Margaery was so desperately in need for. That kind that helped to have her thoughts focused on something that was more middle ground than everything she had learned yesterday and the dull book she was reading today.

In all honesty, Sansa had not been a very prominent thought for her this morning. Her comfortable stupor had prevented her from that, mainly because musings about Sansa were hardly ever feasible in a superficial manner. And so Margaery had not even questioned that Sansa had not woken her, but had moderated instead that her absence would not bother Sansa. After all, it had to be exhausting for her to always have someone by her side throughout each and every one of her waking hours, and possibly a relief to finally have some time to herself.

It was still reassuring to have just the opposite confirmed by Sansa’s words of obvious concern. Knowing that someone cared whether or not she was well, even worried for her, felt better than she had thought she would care for. To put it in an exaggerated way, it was comforting to know that someone cared whether she was alive or not. Sansa’s softly insisting suggestion of calling for the Maester had endeared Margaery, but it was something she had denied for obvious reasons, as well as the circumstance that she was indeed feeling a lot better.

The hesitant, almost shy, way in which Sansa had brought up the question if Margaery was upset with her, had touched her, but at the same time had not gone by without a bad conscience. The truth was that she had been overwhelmed the previous night, maybe even frustrated with Sansa, but not even for a moment had it been her intention to let Sansa think she was mad at her. She had only withdrawn herself because it all had felt like quite too much just then. Margaery told her just that in clear words.

It moved Margaery that she was the person to trigger that need in Sansa, to break through her own borders and walls. Letting Sansa know and assuring her that she was not upset with her, and to help her understand that she’d have time -that for Margaery she did not need to rush anything- and would not need to push herself beyond what she felt comfortable with, were more than just empty words.

The way Sansa had looked at her, so desperate and lost, like she did not know what was wrong with her, only that there was something wrong with her, that she could not shake off; Margaery would have needed a heart of stone not to embrace her in that moment.

It was not unproblematic, that closeness to Sansa; but that was another problem altogether. And really focusing on someone else’s troubles was always so very easy compared to focusing on her own, had always been. It was like she had a different perspective on the troubles of others, was better able to see the surroundings, the different perspectives, things behind and to the sides; while with her own troubles it was not quite that easy. Sometimes it felt like all she could do was stare right at them, paralyzed in fear.

Margaery understood Sansa, even if it frustrated her a hundred times. This kind of caution from her was surely not unrelated to whom or what she had encountered in the past couple of years; it was a shield. Who could tell the things Sansa had seen, the things she had experienced, the things she had endured. Sometimes Margaery thought she had a vague idea, and then she was not too sure if she even wanted the whole story.

When she had dared her into that game of pretend that had led to them into an imaginary journey throughout Westeros, it had been her main intention to blow the cobwebs off Sansa’s mind, but also a try to stall her and keep her around just a bit longer. That this ended up soothing her own demons had really just been incidental. Allowing her mind to wander, and focus on dreams and desires, which she denied herself every other day, had been fun. It was not something did anymore. Ever since the wildfire, Margaery had not thought much about the future. Had been stumped, nearly confused, when first Sansa and then Lord Baelish had brought it up. Maybe she had been convinced that she did not have much of a future; maybe that it was not important anymore, because it was out of her hands.

That was that sense of realism she could not ignore. They would not ride to the wall together, or anywhere else. Not anytime soon, maybe ever. Even if winter ended tomorrow, Margaery would not be able to sit on a horse for a couple of days in a row, not in her condition. And even once that would no longer be an issue, then she’d have a child to think about. It was not like she could just strap it to her chest, and ride into the sunset. No, that was not an option. And even if… the chances of ever showing Highgarden to Sansa were minimal - even less so a Highgarden she remembered and used to adore.

Trying to keep Sansa from going back to her work had been first and foremost selfish. Her presences, as always did Margaery good, made it easy to keep herself distracted, but that was not all there was to it. Margaery could not quite allow herself to think about why she wanted to keep Sansa around so badly. There was no point in pondering about that all embarrassing need for Sansa’s company, for conversations with her, comforting her, wanting to make her smile. All of that was only adding confusion in a situation where her life was already way too complicated.

Ultimately, Margaery had not sincerely expected to keep Sansa from eventual taking off and continuing with the part of  her day that did not involve herself. Her sitting down next to her had truly dumbfounded Margaery for a short moment. Then it had gladdened her, not only for herself, but also for Sansa. In the small portions of worries that Sansa let shine through every now and then, it was evident that she was, while maybe not completely exhausted, certainly overwhelmed from time to time. Having a kind of balance from what she had to do while also doing what she enjoyed was necessary to survive in her role. Margaery hoped she could help her understand that; no one would die, because Sansa skipped one afternoon of answering letters and reading reports.

The game that Sansa suggested they could play, had turned out as something entirely different. When she had said that she had a new game for them, Margaery had expected something that maybe required cards, dice or a board and tokens; something plain, fun for sure, but in all not too adventurous. Instead Sansa had come back with a carafe of wine and two cups, nothing else, and this had caused Margaery to just stare at her in sincere disbelief for a moment. It was not something she had not anticipated. Maybe she still saw her too much as that innocent young girl she had gotten to know in King’s Landing, but she would have never thought that drinking games were anywhere in Sansa’s repertoire at all.

“I saw Shae play this with some other servants once,” Sansa offered as an explanation, possibly prompted by Margaery’s expression of bewilderment. “You remember my handmaiden Shae, don’t you?”

Only the very vague memory of a face appeared in Margaery’s mind as to the mention of the name, and that was less linked to Sansa, but more to the trial Tyrion Lannister had faced after the death of Joffrey. A young black-haired woman, who’d made a statement that left Tyrion’s face first positively destroyed, and then had him exploding with pent up frustration and anger. The same young woman who’d later been found dead in Tywin Lannister’s bedchamber. Did Sansa know about that? Did she know about the connection her handmaiden had shared with Tyrion? Margaery doubted both, and did not want to be the one to fill her in.

“Faintly, yes.” Clearing her throat, Margaery tried to focus on the matter at hand. “And how exactly does this game work?”

“I make an assumption about you. If I’m right, you drink, If I’m wrong, I drink.” Sansa filled the both cups, put the carafe back down, and then tilted her gaze up, a challenging look towards Margaery. “And vice versa.”

That concept did not sound entirely unappealing, she had to admit. A good way to learn a little more about Sansa, beyond what she had shared so far. While she had meant every word of Sansa not having to push herself for the sake of her, Sansa suggesting to play this game was a clear indicator that she had meant her words as well; she wanted to confide more, she wanted to be able to put that kind of trust in Margaery. It seemed like a good first step in that direction, and Margaery would not pass up the chance. It sounded just daring enough for her to be intrigued.

Her silent musing seemed to suggest hesitance to Sansa. “You are not intimidated, are you?”

Only barely she refrained herself from huff; instead wanted to know more about the technicalities of this game. “What if I lie?”

“You’d dare to lie to me?”

“Anything to protect my honour.”

A mixture of amusement, and playful disapproval passed Sansa’s face. “I’d say there is not much honour to protect, if the first thing that comes to your mind is lying.”

“Well put,” Margaery acknowledged, and smiled.

In the end, there was no real question about whether or not she wanted to play this. There was not much risk in it, she figured. Afterall, the factor that you could lie was still a fairly big one, and if their multiple games of Mia had shown her anything, then that she could trust in her ability to not have her every thought and emotion visible on her face. In the best case scenario they would get to know each other a bit better; the worst case was that both of them lied, and neither of them learned anything new. Those were odds Margaery felt comfortable with.

“I’ll give you the honours of starting,” Sansa offered ever so graciously.

With pursed lips, staring into her still full cup, Margaery considered carefully what to say, and finally came to the conclusion that it would be best to ease into this by making an assumption that she was fairly certain of.

 “You’re favourite food are lemon cakes,” was the first thing that came to mind.

A disapproving look appeared on Sansa’s face. “I did not think I would have to explain to you the difference between an assumption and something you know,” she reproached. “Also: No. They haven’t been for some time.”

 “They aren’t?” Margaery asked in bewilderment. So much for entering with something she had deemed as a safe bet. “What then?”

“That would be a good thing to make an assumption about, now wouldn’t it?” With a gesture towards Margaery’s cup Sansa ordered firmly: “Now, drink.”

Gruntingly Margaery took a very small sip. She wanted to be careful with the amount of wine she actually had. It was not that Margaery did not enjoy the occasional drunken mishap, but in general she preferred to have a focused mind. It was easier for her function like that, and she had seen and taken part in enough drinking games to know how quickly a fun game could take a wrong direction after one too many drinks. How to keep a clear mind when there was drinking involved, was something she had figured out rather early in her life.

When it was Sansa’s turn to make the next guess, it did not take her very long to come up with something. The words rolled off her lips effortlessly, with just the right amount of poise. “Our nightly walks are your favourite time of the day.”

Well-behaved Margaery returned the smile that Sansa gave her and took yet another small sip one more time through pressed lips. Even though she could have easily pointed out that Sansa’s assumption was also more of a granted fact than anything else, she didn’t; it looked like they both needed a couple of rounds to test the waters carefully.

Margaery leaned back and nursed her cup in her hands thoughtfully as she tried to come up with her next assumption. A certain amount of tact was indispensable in this game, and even more so when it came to Sansa. Too many times she had seen how a topic that was a just the tiniest bit too personal had Sansa recoiling rather quickly. Her endeavour was to land on a topic that would not cause this, but at the same time would not be to general or too dull either; at least for the time being.

“The news about my presumed death, saddened you quite greatly.”

While Margaery saw this as a relatively safe guess, it would presumptuous to say she was sure of it.

The long and momentarily sombre look that appeared on Sansa’s face before she brought the cup to her lips, stirred something in Margaery that not even the words that followed could erase. “How am I supposed to not affirm that, without sounding like a horrible person?”

Margaery merely smiled softly, and silently appreciated the confirmation. She did not have to wait long for Sansa’s next statement. 

“You miss summer, but you don’t hate winter as much as you pretend to.”

“I do still hate it a great deal,” Margaery clarified firmly, but still brought the cup to her lips. How could she truly hate winter, when it brought along moments quite like this one.

“You have never been drunk,” Margaery accused next, and just as Sansa opened her mouth, ready to contradict, she added quickly. “And I do not mean giggling tipsy buzzed. I mean drunk to the point where you are sick and you have no more control over your words or actions.”

Sansa’s will to protest disappeared from her face and instead she took a sip.

“You miss the ocean.”

Margaery considered it briefly. “Now I do,” she complained in an accusing tone, that caused Sansa to smile apologetically. A very good guess, she had to admit anyhow, one she had not even thought about herself until just now.

 

The game went back and forth between them in that petty harmless way for a while. They both brushed over safe topics. Assumed favourites and preferences of all kind. Colours, foods, drinks, books, dresses, weather. Both of them used the chance to clear up the few harmless ideas and perceptions they harboured about the other.

When it came to refilling their cups Margaery was careful to be the one to do so. She did so a lot more frequently than would have been necessary, so it would not be too obvious that her cup did not empty quite in the same quickness as Sansa’s. If Margaery was comprehending correctly, then Sansa was almost at two cups already, while she had not quite finished one. While that was not entirely fair minded, it was not like she dared Sansa into having bigger sips than herself.

Had Margaery been able to foresee to which topics Sansa’s liquid courage would bring them, maybe she would have slowed down with refilling her cup quite so frequently. 

That amount of wine in her system seemed enough for Sansa seemed to grow a little bit bolder in her guesses, and when for a while she had seemed to be considering each one carefully, now the statements just poured out of her.

 “You have not been in love with either of your husbands,” Sansa said, eyes unwavering.  

With a small remorse full smile, Margaery drank. Some things were worth denying, this certainly wasn’t.

She hadn’t been. Not even a little.

Only with Renly there might have been the chance for something like affection, but that had more to do with their shared love for Loras, and she didn’t think that this was the kind of love Sansa was referring to. Joffrey had been a monster that seemed quite impossible to love; even if they had been married longer than just a couple of hours, Margaery had a hunch that this would not have been the kind of relationship where feelings grew over time. About his brother, Margaery had conflicted feelings at best; on the one hand she felt sympathy for the young boy who had been overwhelmed by the world he had been born into, he had seen no other way than ending his own life. That was something he certainly did not deserve; too great had been his integrity and his will to do the right thing. But at the same time, that gentle character he had was a not insignificant part of what she hated deeply about him. That weakness and inability to stand up to anyone.

As she pushed those reflections about her three late husbands aside, with it she also discarded the assumption of Sansa’s favourite character in the Lay of the Sorrows she had wanted to bring up next.

“Same assumption back at you,” Margaery dared instead. “You had no romantic affection for either of your husbands.”

“Gods no.” Sansa’s eyes darkened a little and the sip she took this time was a little bigger than the one before, but did not care to offer further explanations. Instead she was quick to shoot out her own next statement. “Sometimes you forget about your family and that feels horrible.”

They had certainly surpassed the more superficial part of this game, Margaery thought as she drank. 

“You really want to seem strong all the time.”

Sansa only very reluctantly took a sip, like admitting to that would be showing a weakness just then.

For the next one Sansa’s eyes narrowed the tiniest bit, as if she tried to see her a bit clearer in the metaphorical sense. Her statement was once again hitting the nail on the head.

“You have never physically harmed anyone.”

Dutifully Margaery drank. She had not, not even as much as a slap in the face. It was not who she was, it was not who she was raised to be. She had words and smiles, a variety of other qualities and courtesies, but not violence.

The question brought a certain curiosity up, as to how Sansa came up it in the first place. “Have you?” she wondered out loud.

 

There was clear hesitation in Sansa’s attitude. “That was not a statement,” she declared then with a stoic expression.

A bit bewildered, Margaery raised her brows, and tilted her head at Sansa’s tone, but she knew better than to inquire any further. That reaction reeked of more behind it, and yet no matter how more questions were on her mind, she wanted to stick to her promise of not pushing Sansa.

“Fine,” she said instead and picked something else. “You have read so many romantic tales, that you can’t stand them anymore.”

“To a point where they nauseate me,” Sansa admitted with a light chuckle, and then drank. In the way that her shoulders lost a bit of their tenseness, Margaery could tell that it had been the right decision to move on from the previous topic.

Sansa nursed the cup in her hands for a short while before that challenging hint of a smile appeared, which always indicated Margaery had to brace herself for trouble. “You did not go into marriage as a maiden.”

It took all of Margaery’s self-command not to choke on air; that was not a statement she had expected from Sansa, ever. Yes, wine made her bolder, but a question that touched quite such a personal aspect, held an almost scandalous implication, she would have never expected from Sansa. That was not entirely a bad thing, it had the prospect of making the game a lot more interesting, still it caught her by surprise.

Careful to have just the right amount of prudency on her face, Margaery batted her lids, and looked to the floor. Denying this came as naturally to her as breathing. For too many years an admittance to any pre-marital transgression could have ruined her, and everything she had achieved. When her hand twitched, she only deferred for the length of two heartbeats; she reached for her cup and brought it to her lips ever so slowly; her eyes were glued to Sansa’s as she took a sip. A rather simple moment, and the implication and revelation was not as nearly as grand as it felt, but it triggered that tiny smirk to appear on Sansa’s face, and that made it almost impossibly fun, downright heady.

As always, Margaery was the first one to advert her eyes. Giving into that fun was not the best idea, no matter how good it felt, or how much she enjoyed it. Not if she was not willing to face the question of the reason, and possible consequences. Categorically she took a deep breath, and decided that they needed to move away from topics like this.

“You like your current role so much, a part of you wants to stay in charge.”

As expected, Sansa’s eyes grew hard. “Drink.”

It was not the complete truth, Margaery suspected, but getting Sansa to make any confession in that direction, was never the purpose of choosing that statement in the first place; that would have been a long shot either way. She was not sure that Sansa even acknowledged that stifled ambition in her own most private thoughts. Her real goal was to, perhaps not intimidate her, but undoubtedly point out that if Sansa dove into more personal assumptions, so would Margaery.

That worked like a charm; Sansa pondered for a long moment over her next statement, and kept it a lot more simple.

“You miss the court of the red keep.”

The relief she should have felt was outweighed by disenchantment. The mood that had so ever slowly creeped into the room between them, was gone. Margaery washed that feeling of loss down with a gulp of wine and considered why that statement felt true, even when she should not have spent even a moment on missing that gruesome place.

“Despite yourself, you hold an admiration for Cersei.”

Sansa drank, only to look at Margaery provokingly then. “So do you.”

When Margaery drank this time, it was the last sip from her cup. Somewhere along the way she had not been as cautious anymore to take small sips, had been too lost in thought in between. Distracted by memories, by musings, by Sansa’s insight that she did not quite know from where it came from. Sansa wordlessly refilled both of their cups, and as she watched her do so, the next statement slipped of her lips, offering proof that she really had too much wine on an almost empty stomach.

“You have never been in love.”

Maybe it was imagination, because she felt more than only a little horrified with her own words, but Sansa’s movements seemed to slow considerably, as she tilted the carafe back into an upright position, put it down, and leaned back in her chair. Only then she brought the cup to her lips with an expression that was so solemn, Margaery could have, for the first time, no joy in being right. What a waste, was all she managed to think.

“You have been in love, but it did not end well,” Sansa said with a thorough look.

One more time the nearly accurate truth of Sansa’s statement surprised her immensely; the insight it showed Sansa had on her made question for the first time if it had been her best call to agree to this game.

As she drank, Margaery only briefly let her thoughts wander back to the day she broke someone’s heart and her own. Internally, Margaery shook herself to get rid of these thoughts. She blamed the wine for making her this sentimental over something that had happened years ago and that she had put to rest for nearly as long.

Keen to move them away from this heavy topic, she tried to focus on something else entirely with her next assumption. Away from memories that would only bring along questions and unpleasant memories.

“You wish to be more like your sister sometimes.”

Sansa didn’t bother to deny it.

“When you learned that your family was dead, you hated them for it a little bit.”

Margaery drank. She did not just hate them a little bit for it. It had taken her quite a while to get to the point until the anger had ceased enough to actually mourn their death.

“Did you?” Margaery asked, breaking the rhythm of their game up.

“I don’t think that’s a statement,” Sansa said, but took a drink anyway, then she sighed. “Not so much for dying, but for the decisions they made that led to their death.”

Yes, Margaery thought. That was it. That was how she had felt. Once the initial hope that Loras and her father might have survived after all had perished, all she had been able to think about were the last years of their life, and she’d thought time and time again, that they had been stupid and weak too many times.

“Tell me about the time you were in love.” Sansa bid interrupted her thoughts.

The plea caught Margaery by surprise, she looked at Sansa silently for a long moment. She did not know if she wanted to talk about this, if she could talk about this, or even should. She gripped the cup tightly between her hands. Not even Loras had known about this, and normally they had known each other inside out.

“I’m sorry if I’m being tactless,” Sansa offered upon Margaery’s silence. “You don’t have to tell me if you’d prefer not to speak about it.”

Margaery saw the soft hint of repentance on Sansa’s features. It was not a good idea to talk about this with her of all people, possibly the worst; and for that very same reason she badly wanted to.

“I was young.” The words left her lips rather hesitantly, she was quite uncertain where to even start this story. “So young, that I sometimes wonder if it was even love or only the wish to be in love. Either way, it doesn’t matter... it felt wonderful. We’d sneak from the crowd, and share stolen kisses in dark corners, or hold hands under the table.” There was a smile on her face as she remembered those months. It had all been completely innocent and maybe that was what made it even better and more special. When she thought about it, she thought of summer. Of hot days spent riding or swimming, of too hot nights that they’d spend talking, touching, kissing.

“What happened?”

“My grandmother.”

“She forbade you from seeing each other?” Sansa looked a little bit like Margaery imagined her reading a romance novel; appalled by any obstacles that kept lovers apart, thinking that it was quite unfair and that love had to conquer all. Margaery dearly hoped that the truth that was coming would not disillusion Sansa too much.

She shook her head. “No.” That had not been grandmother’s fashion. “I think she knew that a prohibition would have only brought us closer together.” Margaery paused, but kept her eyes firmly down on the table. “She sat me down, and talked to me. Explained that she would support me no matter what, and that she wanted me to be happy.”

Sansa had listened silently, but at that she huffed.

“I actually think she was being sincere,” Margaery defended her grandmother gently. “She simply knew me very well. You see, even at the age of 15, I was ambitious. It’s the way I was raised, but also the way I am. To achieve great things, to go places, had not just been my family’s plan for me, but also my own. Grandmother told me that I would have to make a choice, that I couldn’t have both. Loving someone would always be in the way of focusing on your goal.”

Generally, her grandmother had never cared much for any of her involvements. Highgarden and the Reach were a lot more liberal in than the rest of Westeros, save Dorne perhaps. In fact, her grandmother had considered those who only stuck to their betrothed as either terribly boring, or not quite right in the upstairs. Moral high ground had not been the reason for concern.

She had painted quite the picture, actually. She had asked Margaery how she saw her future. As lady of her own court, maybe even queen, Margaery had answered. A position of power either way. Her grandmother had then asked her how this affection would fit into that future? If she wanted power, she’d have to marry someone with power, anyone else would always have to come second, would not be able to share her bed, or even her time. Thinking she could have both was a nice notion, but certainly not very realistic.

Physical things like lust and passion were fleeing notions, her grandmother had explained, giving into those was hardly ever more than a temporary distraction. Love on the other hand, was a dangerous thing, as it had the ability to divert your attention permanently. How would she be able to focus her entire energy, and her affection on her husband, when always in the back of her mind, there’d be someone she’d worry about hurting? This one, or anyone else. It was not about her current affection in particular, but the fact that if she wanted a position of power, she’d have to consider if she could endure this. If she considered herself strong enough to make sacrifices for love.

“It was your decision,” Sansa realized then and the disappointment on her face was not as bad as Margaery had feared. It was more a clear sense of comprehension, of understanding even.

Margaery closed her eyes to push the feelings away that bubbled up in her chest as freshly as if it had just happened yesterday. Memory was a curious thing; one thought, one notion was enough to bring up the same feelings she had felt more than half a decade ago.

“It broke my heart,” she continued. “A lady of my grandmother was to be married to a merchant in Essos, and so when the ship was ready to sail, Lecia was on board.”

Had Margaery raised her head, she would have noticed the way Sansa first blinked slowly in confusion at the mention of a girl’s name, followed by a brief look of understanding that she was quick to mask again, but Margaery’s eyes were still lowered as she was so lost in the memory that almost physically hurt her.

She did not bother to tell her what it had taken for her to make Lecia go, because of course she had not wanted to leave; had begged her to let her stay, to talk to her grandmother and her father in order to convince them; had told her that she loved her more than life itself, cried and pleaded to explain what was bringing on this change of mind. In the end, only when Margaery had been downright mean and vile, only when her words had hurt Lecia beyond redemption, had she finally given up and boarded the ship without a single look back. Margaery had locked herself in her room and cried for three days. It was only a few weeks later, Robert Baratheon died, and her betrothal to Renly had been arranged.

“Do you regret it?” Sansa wanted to know.

“For a long time, quite the opposite,” Margaery said with a smile. “I was absolutely convinced that I had done the right thing. Not long after, I was the queen of Westeros after all, you know with the one or another hurdle, but still.”

At first, she had not allowed to herself to think about it, and then at one point she had been occupied with other things, too wrapped up in other antics that were a lot more pressing than a broken heart. Sitting in the dungeons of the Sept, wondering how she had ended up there, that had been the first time after a long while, where a thought of Lecia entered her mind again. As she sat there in a dark cell, every bad decision of her life had been on her mind, and she’d considered that maybe her cruelty to Lecia back then was one of the things that meant she very much deserved to be in this situation; one of the things that indicated she was not the good person that she wanted to see herself as. In the end, the thought had disappeared as quickly as it had come to her; there had been no time for sad musings over lost love, not when she had needed all her willpower in order to get out of there.

“And now?” Sansa asked.

“Now…” Margaery breathed. “I think that maybe it was not the right thing for me, but certainly for her. And I dearly hope she is safe and happy, wherever she is.” And if she had any regrets, then the way she’d ended their love for each other, and that she had made Lecia feel like she never meant anything to her at all.

Margaery looked up again and met Sansa’s eyes. They were so full of compassion and for only this moment she was glad she had shared this story. It felt good to have someone else acknowledge the pain that came with the memory of a lost love.

In so many years she had never spoken about any of this, had not even thought about it. It felt positively wry to do so now in front of Sansa of all people; Sansa who she had so many feelings about, she did not quite allow herself to fully come to the forefront of her mind. With whom spending time, which now compared to the memories of Leica, felt not all that dissimilar to how it had all started between them. That need to have her around all the time, that urge to see her smile, to make her smile. That near giddiness that came with being on the reserving end of a smile finally.

Even if it was quite possibly the stupidest thing she could do, what stopped her from enjoying the feeling on its own that was so wonderful? It was not like she had to act on it, eventually it would cease all on its own. It was not the first time she had been infatuated with someone, and it had always passed. Where would be the harm in just enjoying Sansa’s presence? 

“I’m sorry if my question upset you.” Sansa tone suggested that the thought of distressing Margaery was the furthest thing on her mind. “I had just been curious.”

Margaery managed a smile and shook her head. “Please do not worry about it. These are just memories I had not thought about in very, very long. Not necessarily unpleasant.” Her eyes fell on Sansa’s thoughtful face, and one more time a question slipped off her tongue before she could stop herself. “Have you really never been in love?”

Sansa hesitated. “I thought I was once or twice, but I think that was lovestruck at best.”

“If you had been, you’d know,” Margaery told her with a soft berating smile.

“What’s it like?”

Margaery breathed; while she did enjoy being the more experienced between them, and offering well thought out words, this was very thin ice she was trotting on right now, and it felt like she was wearing too heavy baggage on her shoulders in order to dare to go there. Yet, she did so anyway.

“It’s wonderful and horrible all at once. You are not quite yourself, don’t think like you normally do, don’t act like you normally do. All you do, all you think, it all comes back to that person, and that is frightening, because everything that does not involve them is suddenly boring and trivial. It’s scary because it feels like you give one half of yourself to someone else, one that you have no control over anymore, but it that doesn’t matter because if everything comes together, if they return your affection, it is indescribably grand.”

Her eyes were firmly on the empty cup in her hands; Margaery couldn’t bring herself to look at Sansa while speaking, felt that she would turn to stone on the spot if she did. When she finally dared to do so, Sansa blinked thoughtfully, she looked like she was receiving a lesson about history, instead of talking about love. Like she wanted to pull out quill and ink in a moment to make notes.

“And if they don’t?”

Margaery chuckled darkly, as she remembered how her cousin Ellinor had described it. “Then having wild fire dripped onto your body until there is nothing but your heart left, seems like a less torturous option.”

With a frown Sansa shook her head. “Now I think your exaggerating.”

“Not much, though.”

Sansa took a small sip of wine, and Margaery could one more time very well see how hard the wheels in her head were turning. “If it’s so wonderful, how could you ever let it go?”

“Sometimes something feeling quite so wonderful can be too much. Choosing the safe and rational thing can be easier than anything involving feelings.”

“That I do understand.”

Only it had not been that for her. Not really. She had loved Lecia a lot, had been heartbroken when she was gone from her life, but she had not ended their love because it had become too much, or because she had been afraid. In the end, it came down to one cruel truth: No matter how much she had loved her, she had loved herself, and her all so grand ambition more.

“I do not feel I’m particularly missing out on much,” Sansa voiced some very rational thoughts just then.

It would have been the fit occasion to just drop the topic there, and once and for all. She could have told Sansa, that yes, she was not missing out on much, but that was so far from the truth, she felt she could not bring herself to do this to Sansa.

“What if I told you, you are?”

Sansa shook her head. “It’s like you said, sometimes choosing the safe and rational way seems like the wiser thing to do... I am safe… I am in charge,” she rationalized. “Why should I bring in anyone to upset that? Cersei told me once that loving anyone makes you foolish, makes you do things you shouldn’t, makes you weak… at the time I did not fully understand it, but I think it was genuinely good advice.”

“Do you really consider Cersei to have the best insight on that subject?” Margaery’s tone was a bit harsher than she had intended, but she couldn’t help it; this made her angry. She wondered what else had Cersei told a young and so very mouldable Sansa, and another wave of anger rushed through her. That woman had a way of destroying everything good and precious that came her way. “Because she is such an example of mental stability?”

“No,” Sansa remained unfazed at her tone. “Because she survived … and conquered everything that was put in her way.”

“That is perhaps not something you should point out to someone who has been a something Cersei conquered,” Margaery said a little more sharply than she intended.

Of course Sansa was not even being unreasonable. Whatever Cersei had told her was, in the end, not all that different from what her grandmother had said. Feelings did make things more complicated, it did make you act foolish, and lose your sight of your goals, but Margaery also knew that her grandmother was maybe pragmatic, but by no means as cruel as Cersei. She was certain that if her decision about Lecia had gone in the opposite direction, she could have counted on her grandmother’s support.

“I did not mean it like that,” Sansa conceded apologetic.

If she wanted to say more, she didn’t; only stared into the distance for a long moment. Margaery took that moment to study her face. To someone who did not know her as well as Margaery did, her face would have looked neutral, but her eyes gave her away. They were like an open book to her, but it was not the whole range of emotion which passed through them that captured her attention, but the recognition that they seemed almost unfocused, and glassy. It was undoubtedly that Sansa was the tiniest bit drunk.

“Do you hear that?”

Margaery blinked; besides the crackling of the fire, she did not hear anything. Then she recognized that was exactly what Sansa was talking about. All morning and afternoon the winds had been howling heavily, had rattled on the window covers, now it was completely silent.

She smiled. “You think the storm has passed?”

“It certainly sounds like the worst is behind us,” Sansa confirmed with a smile of her own.

“Let’s check.”

As Margaery stood up, she felt the wine’s effect on her. Standing and walking the few steps towards the covered window, her mind felt fuzzy. She was by no means drunk, but her head was not nearly as clear as she would have liked it. In the future she’d do her best to stay three arm lengths away from any games that involved wine. Especially around Sansa - and maybe it was best to keep wine away from Sansa as well.

She pushed the window covers aside and the shutters open, and with it the most gorgeous view appeared before her. The winds had indeed calmed, the cloud ceiling from last night and this morning was starting to open up, allowing the already setting sun to dunk everything in the most gorgeous and warm colours, which made it seem like the snow-covered landscape was glowing. It was devastatingly beautiful.

When Sansa’s figure appeared in her range of vision, Margaery blinked for a moment and turned her head to see Sansa next to her, so close their arms almost touched. The smile she gave her, her sudden, unexpected proximity, and the jolt it sent right to her stomach let Margaery realize one more time just how much trouble she was in.

“It may not be a sunrise from on top of the wall, but perhaps a foretaste,” Sansa mused.

If this was only an apprehension, Margaery was worried the real thing might be more than she could bear.

Only she wished to have that numbness she had woken up to back. Even though she felt so very content right now and this afternoon had offered the perfect amount of distraction, she was afraid what would come after that warmness of the fire, the wine, and the conversation had brought along had worn off. Everything that had upset her yesterday would be back, and it would be significantly harder to ignore these musings about Sansa still, whereas adding this into the messy equation her life was right now, seemed like the worst idea possible.

Yes, Margaery had conflicted feelings towards winter. This afternoon would have never occurred the way it had in summer. Whether that was a good or a bad thing, time would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feedback for the last chapter seriously overwhelmed me, I'm hardly able to put in words how very happy it made me! Thank you so so very much!!!!  
> My way to properly thank you (actions instead of just words, if you will), an update a bit earlier than planned.   
> Which is not entierly selfless I have to admit, since I am of course dying to hear your thoughts of the paticular developement in this chapter. :) I hope you enjoyed it!


	10. Chapter Ten

Many times in her life Sansa had found herself confronted with sudden moments of realization, of understanding. And almost always that had felt like a bucket of ice cold water emptied over her head. It was something that took her breath away and paralyzed her temporarily. What followed that initial shock was essentially shame. Shame over not recognizing earlier, over taking so long to bring given evidence into the right context, over being so very blind, stupid, and naïve.

That she was a slow learner in some situations of her life was not new information. Often that sense of apprehension had arrayed in a lot later than defensible; a bunch of times only when it was already too late, and she was confronted with repercussions.

Learning was a tricky thing for her. She felt that other people noticed and understood coherences a lot quicker than she did. Maybe it was a certain absence of instinct on her part, maybe it was simple naivete.

Gaining factual knowledge, on the other hand, came natural to Sansa. Everything she could look up in books or hear from a reliable source felt effortless to gain. It had been like this ever since she was a young child. Learning materials that her siblings had struggled with were a breeze for Sansa. She soaked up knowledge like a sponge, no matter what the topic. She read a text once and remembered its contain as simple as that. Whether she had to remember historic information and year dates, basic matters, as sigils and words of houses, or proper behaviour and expected etiquette from a lady.

Matters that were more on the emotive side had always been harder. It took a while for that certain click to appear in her head, that point where everything came together.

This particular click could arise in the extent of rather grand circumstances. Instances too big to ignore. Conversations, decisions, or events that had seemed to hold a heavy meaning from the start, one that was nearly palpable in the air. A decision made, a secret revealed, a judgement passed. Like a slap in the face that woke her up and pulled her from everything what she thought she knew and understood.

However, two out of three times it was a lot more subtle that, and worked a lot slower. Pieces that came to together bit by bit, slowly, sometimes only over years.

These small pieces could be like shards of a broken jug that where shattered across a room, spread everywhere, hard and frustrating to find, occasionally sharp and hurtful each on its own, and even harder and complicated to put back together. Just like that broken jug that could not serve its purpose until all the fragments were complete and in the correct place, Sansa often could not grasp something in its entirety until she not only had all the information but also saw it in the right context.

It was a straining concept. Sometimes she received information she felt she knew was valuable and important, but had not the slightest idea in which regard. As if there were shards of several jugs all around her and she had to figure out to which these belonged to. It was frustrating, having the comprehension to something at the tip of your fingers, but just not quite.

Either way, the understanding had a certain sense of sneaking up on her. More times than not it caught her by surprise and where her life had been relatively fine only a moment before, then it was like someone had pulled the ground from underneath her feet, and nothing would ever be the same again.

When realization hit her this time around, it was no different. It came seemingly out of nowhere, and she felt like the perfect fool.

In hindsight, even her day leading up to this point had carried along about a thousand additional indicators, but she had not been able to see them in the right context.

She had woken up with the slightest bit of a squeamish stomach and a rather nauseating dryness and taste in her mouth, remains of the several cups of wine she had enjoyed the past afternoon and evening. It had not taken more than two sips of water and a couple of splashes into her face to wash that feeling away. A remnant she felt she could live with, especially considering how much she savoured the previous day before and all it had brought along.

This game, that did not even have a name, clearly had taken a different turn than Sansa had predicted. When she’d proposed it, she’d been wide-eyed enough to expect mainly fun and laughter, just like when she had observed it being played between Shae and her friends. At a time in her life where there had been no joy at all, it had fascinated her, the way their laughter had rolled off the walls, to where they were nearly hysterical and only giggling for the sake of it. It was what she had craved for herself and Margaery, some amusement in a world that could be so dreadful on most days.

It had turned out a lot more serious for them; the moments of laughter almost negligible.

For the women participating in King’s Landing, the game had reached those more sombre turns occasionally too. Then their laughter had broken off, and they had seemed thoughtful. Back then Sansa had found those moments rather tedious and had figured that playing a game had the purpose to distract and be fun.

Only when she had already been through a couple of rounds with Margaery did she finally understand it. Those weirdly quiet points, those looks they had shared, that sense of familiarity.  Back then she had not understood it, because she had not had friends like that.

She knew, considering the seriousness of what they had talked about, to claim it had been fun was not the proper term, but she could not help it; playing with Margaery had just been that - insanely enjoyable.

Margaery had not looked the freshest when she had joined her for their morning routine, but not in a measure that worried Sansa, more so in a way that was adorably dishevelled and so unlike Margaery. Her hair seemed a little wilder than any other day and not as tidily pulled back, and the line of a pillow cease was still visible on her face.

She had also looked tired, but no more than Sansa felt herself, so she’d accepted the silence that came with that.

It had been Margaery to point out that silence. “It’s been a while since I had a morning affected by the impacts of too much wine.”

“I don’t think I ever had one of those,” Sansa had admitted.

“This is mild,” Margaery’d allowed. “But should we consider to ever to play again in the future, we should not do so before we’ve had a reasonable amount of food.”

The prospect that Margaery did not rule out another round one day had ceased the faint concern that Margaery had not enjoyed the game as much as herself. After all, it was once again her that had shared more, and not only pleasant memories. 

Sansa’s day had seemed a lot more endurable than any in a few weeks. The break had done her good, she had to admit, and she was incredibly grateful for Margaery stalling her the previous day. Everything had been–while maybe not exactly fun–a lot less nerve-wracking.

Nothing had distracted her or appeared like it was too much. Not Littlefinger and his lingering glances and smooth speeches. Not Arya whom she’d only passed briefly in the courtyard and who’d offered her a look that at best she had not known what to make off, at worst should have troubled her. Not Brienne who once again voiced concern about the truthfulness of Littlefinger. Not even a relatively excessive letter from Lyanna Mormont that inquired insistently why she had not received a reply from her still.

Any other day, all of that would have been an infinite list of events that overwhelmed her, precipitated worry, but now she had found herself all still too wrapped up in the pleasant bubble that the previous afternoon had been, and it had not bothered her very much. If anything, she’d swept through her works a lot quicker and more efficient than in weeks.

The rest she had permitted herself caused this, she had been sure. Pacing herself and her energy was important, and a lot more resourceful than working until the late hours every single day.

Drawing the consequences was simple. Instead of remaining behind the desk in her solar for the remains of the late afternoon and evening, she’d gathered a few documents that were inevitable and taken them back to her bedchamber. Then she’d pleaded to a pleasantly surprised Margaery to keep her some company while she went through the last scraps of paper.

They’d sat down across from each other, Margaery with a book in her hands, one of those ever amused smiles on her face as she’d stolen the occasional look at her struggling to accommodate to the limited space on the table. They had sat like this for some time, both enthralled by their own activity, with an amiable silence between them, the only noise in the room crackling flames in the fireplace and the occasional rustling of paper. Only when Sansa’s growling stomach had broken that silence for the third time Margaery had drawn up her eyebrows and suggested having dinner served.

“I’m certain Lady Mormont will forgive you if you delay sending her your recommendation of how to shield walls from the cold until tomorrow.”

Sansa had blinked for a moment, still too wrapped up in the words in front of her. In all honestly it had stunned her that Margaery had recalled that. It was a subject quite so boring Sansa almost forgot it herself occasionally and had it not been for Lady Mormont‘s very insistent letter today, she would have most likely overlooked it altogether.

“Don’t look so bewildered.” Margaery had smiled warmly upon Sansa’s evident astonishment. “I do listen.”

Sansa should not have been surprised for even a second, but still was. Someone listening to her every word was not an utterly new concept, but with Margaery it was the first time she felt it counted, better yet, mattered to her.

“Three more sentences and I’m done.”

Margaery had moved her book down on the table and wandered to the door with a smirk. “By the God’s - finish,” she’d responded with a playful exasperated manner. “I’ll send for food in the meantime.”

Once Sansa’d brought the final words into the letter and signed it, she’d leaned back in her chair, a sense of contentment at all she had accomplished today, while it still was early in the evening. Her eyes then had landed on the book that Margaery had been reading throughout the afternoon, and she’d reached for it i to look at the title, just in time as Margaery had sat down across from her.

“You are full of surprises,” Sansa’d accused as she put the book down between them. “That one is even mellow for my taste.”

“It has its moments,” Margaery had smiled knowingly, seized the book into her own hands and had flipped through the pages, as if she had been searching for something in particular. Again she’d met Sansa’s eyes briefly with that crooked smile. “This one is also a lot better at preventing headaches than a Manuscript of Sieges and Crusades.”

“You could have chosen something more on the middle ground.”

Margaery had shrugged. “We all have our mellow days, don’t we?”

Sansa had merely nodded. Yes, that was for certain. There had been occasions when those light entertainment of romantic tales had been her one and only saving grace. Then the thought had been lost on her, because she had noticed Margaery’s eyes growing soft as her fingers grazed over a distinct page, like she had  in fact been looking for something and had now found it, but it had only lasted another heartbeat and then the knock on the door announcing their supper had led her to close the book shut.  

As they were both not particularly hungry, dinner had been a fairly quick affair, and they’d concluded their meal by sharing two half-filled cups of spiced wine, which they both only tentatively sipped on.

Afterwards, Margaery’s enthusiasm when they had set out and prepared for their walk to the Gods Wood had Sansa suppressing a grin. Not only had she bundled herself up in her cloak a lot quicker than regular, but she’d looked positively excited, a little like a kid that could not wait to go out and play. When she had stepped out into the hallway, a good time earlier than her, Sansa breathed out a chuckle.

“You are walking in the wrong direction.”

If Margaery Tyrell ever blushed, that would have been the occasion, but she’d only swung around with the slightest trace of embarrassment visible on her face.

“Eager to get outside?” Sansa had observed as she led them where they were supposed to go.

“What gave me away?” Margaery had returned dryly through batted lashes.

With her skirts gathered in the one hand and the other one supporting herself on the wall, Sansa had spoken over her shoulder as she took the first steps down the stairs. “Sitting in there all day frustrates you, doesn’t it?”

She had received only a light sigh, and then for a while nothing but their steps on the stone floors.

“There is only so much for me to do,” Margaery had declared eventually. “Novels are a nice diversion, though.”

They had entered the courtyard already when Sansa had acquired the words that had been looming in her mind constantly since yesterday, but had deemed as too daring then, as too presumptuous and selfish.

“I have a proposition for you,” she’d started carefully, dubious if it was even in her right to bring this up. Even more unsure if she was doing this for Margaery’s best interest or her own, but maybe one did not denounce the other. “You could accompany me in my days.” She’d waited for a reaction to appear on Margaery’s face, but it had remained politely attentive. “I accept if you’d suppose it too risky, but to be sincere, I expect you are raising more suspicion and conversation throughout the staff as the handmaiden that remains in her room all day instead of being by my side. Also, I’m rather certain that no one in Winterfell would recognize who you are. And to be frank, Littlefinger -the one who is the least trustworthy- already knows.” She had muddled herself in her words and ordered herself to slow down. “It’s just something you could consider.”

Margaery had seemed to consider it and for longer than Sansa’d felt comfortable with. She bit her lip to hold herself back from speaking retracting words that might have made it even worse and had felt suddenly dumb. How could she presume  Margaery would just risk her own safety like this? Complaining about hating something was one thing, but for sure even the most tiresome day staring out the window had to be better than being in anymore danger, specifically after all that Margaery had survived.

“Do you reckon you could sustain me all day long?” Margaery had then asked quietly.

That had produced just the tiniest sliver of optimism that maybe Margaery was not opposed to the plan, but there was nevertheless the possibility she was mainly being friendly and letting her down easy.

“It would undoubtedly be you who would have to endure me - and my obligations,” Sansa had returned vaguely. “I wonder how many inspections of the armoury and pantry it would take, before you gladly retreat to your books and sewing.”

“You underestimate my loathing for handicraft.”

“So you appreciate the suggestion?” Sansa had still been hesitant and wished that her voice would not give her away. Even if all was pointing in a general direction, there had been no words of explicit confirmation yet.

They had almost reached the border of the Gods Wood when Margaery’d offered words that had stirred a new excitement within Sansa. “I do,” Margaery confirmed firmly. “Very much so.”

Instantly a full list of things had emerged in Sansa’s mind of all they could do in daytime. The prospects of all the new places she could show Margaery. All the tasks that would seem just so much more entertaining just by having Margaery present during them. Only in a few days Lady Forrester was predicted to reach Winterfell and the sheer glee of not only Margaery meeting her, but the observations that would definitely be cutting, made Sansa positively giddy.

The foot-deep, unbroken sheet of snow that stretched out in front of them had pulled Sansa from those predictions and had her halt in her tracks altogether. Within the courtyard, the majority of snow had been flattened down throughout the day by the many people moving through it, but not a soul had been in the Gods Wood.

She had wavered and eyed Margaery with an undecided look. “That appears like we will not get anywhere near the weirdwood tree with dry feet.”

“And?” Margaery had not seemed impressed either way. “I can’t see a Lady Stark being hindered by that.”

For another moment Sansa had glanced at the heaps of snow ahead of them. It was almost enough still, she thought. “No, but a Lady Tyrell might turn into an ice sculpture.”

Margaery had shrugged and then taken a few strides forward. “Another night inside will sooner kill me than cold feet.”

Once a couple of feet into the stacks of snow, Margaery had twisted around and looked at her expectantly.

Like she could deny Margaery anything, Sansa had thought, and reluctantly followed. They took maybe fifteen steps before Margaery silently cursed for the first time. Moving in the knee-deep snow was not only uncomfortably cold, but also rather straining; Sansa had not commented, but smiled as she held out her hand for Margaery to take to provide each other some balance. With hands tightly twisted into each other they still took small steps, but it felt easier and not quite at the risk to slip. Whenever her concentration wavered for a moment, Sansa’s eyes settled on Margaery and noticed the persistence in which she directed on her steps, thoroughly ignoring that the bottom of her skirt was already soaked through. And so they had made their way along through the snow.

“This is not unlike a stroll on a sandy shore,” Margaery had pointed out somewhere along the path. “Only instead of sand in your shoes for the rest of your existence, you might end up losing a few toes.”

The initial part had been the worst, but shortly the branches of the woods had appeared above them, the layer of snow on the ground had somewhat decreased, and the heaviness of each step had become easier.

When they’d reached at the red-leafed weirdwood tree marking the centre of the area, their conversation died. A small smile had danced on Sansa’s lips as she released Margaery from the grip of her hand and observed her taking a walk around, cherishing the grace of their surroundings. Sansa had not been here during night time for a while, but the landscape looked precisely as enchanted as she’d had hoped. 

Everything almost looked mystical with the snow that glistened in the light of the moon. She saw Margaery’s profile as she tipped her head backward and peered up at the night sky that was littered with stars. She saw her eyes close and how she drew in breath after breath, the air escaping her in light puffs of air visible in the chill of the night. It was a phenomenon that never did not affect her - catching the awe flash up in Margaery’s eyes at an unfamiliar part of Winterfell she revealed to her.

This light is ideal for her, Sansa thought to herself. Not that any light was unfavourable on Margaery, but in this soft glow of the snow surrounding her, it was positively like she was shining. She looked as gorgeous as ever in the night’s twilight that fell through the tree’s branches, that seemed like someone created it solely for her.

Only when Margaery opened her eyes and moved to face her, as if she had felt Sansa’s attention that had lingered for far longer than appropriate, Sansa realized that she was staring at her. But Margaery gave no sign that she appeared impatient with it, and beamed at her with the expression of genuine warmth.

She’s perfect, was all Sansa could think in that moment, and that precise thought was enough for everything else click together.

Suddenly she understood.

It felt hard for her to breathe and at the same time it was like she seized the first lung full of air in years.

All that had puzzled her about herself, about her own behaviour fell from her eyes like scales. It all flew so clearly through her head and in front of her. The whole range of emotions it brought in made Sansa dizzy.

Foremost was that sense of embarrassment, over being so oblivious, so stupid, once again. It had all been right before her, and was so evident now, so logical, and she could not bring it together. Yesterday she had _asked_ Margaery how it felt, what this kind of devotion to someone felt like, and had not realized that Margaery had described exactly how Sansa felt.

The way she felt around Margaery, when she had looked at her yesterday, when she had embraced her, the state of her own heart beating heavily in her chest, how pleasant and uncomfortable she had felt all at once, how it had all seemed too much all of a sudden.

She was not herself for a while now , because of Margaery and it had not alarmed her in the slightest, because in Margaery’s presence all was delightful and clear. It was not the moments or the talks with Margaery that she had missed throughout every day; she had missed Margaery. Her smile. Her voice. How cheerful she felt every time Margaery looked at her, just like she was now. She rejoiced Margaery’s presence because of how it made her feel.

Only when movement returned to Margaery’s frame, and she made a few steps towards her, Sansa realized that she had been staring at her for much longer than fit. Margaery approaching her had her mind go blank suddenly. For everything. For what to say, for how she normally spoke to her or behaved around her. She had to advert her eyes because she was frightened that Margaery could see every thought passing through her head from them.

If Margaery had caught something she did not express it, but simply smiled and hooked her arm through Sansa’s, like she had so many times before, only this time Sansa had to ball her hands to fists to avoid them from shaking. Her heart beat like mad and the normally so comfortable proximity felt almost too much.

It had been a long time since she’d gotten so timid around anybody, this overwhelmed. It weakened her briefly and created a thrill within her. That thrill she had felt yesterday as well, when Margaery had stood right in front of her. Only the memory of how close they had been then forced a blush to her cheeks now.

“Show me around?” Margaery asked with a bright, oblivious smile.

Sansa somehow regained her composure enough to provide a smile and nod, and pushed her feet to move. They took their stroll further into the woods and any other day there would have been a flow of easy running comments, or she would have taken the occasional look to not miss a moment of awe flashing in Margaery’s eyes at the beauty of their surroundings. Today, Sansa had her view silently trained forward and thought a single glimpse at Margaery in this closeness would have her go up in flames on the spot.

Her mind was packed up in notions about Margaery either way, like it could not fully comprehend the significance behind what she assumed she had just come to recognize.

It was no question she cared for Margaery. Greatly even. Within the few weeks she was here, she had developed into one of, if not the most, important individual in Sansa’s world. But was that not just what friendship was? To trust someone unconditionally, to need them around every minute of the day, to share moments of laughter, and then again moments of closeness.

But people who you had an amiable sentiment for did not provoke a reaction like the one she had, did they? She was desperately aware of the pressure of Margaery’s arm in her own, of the warmth it radiated, of every time their shoulders brushed together while walking.

It was the story Margaery had told her she understood. That was what had opened this door. The story of that first love, of the girl that Margaery had cared for so long ago. An occasion where she had made herself maybe as vulnerable as Sansa had ever seen her. Not even when she had spoken about the loss of her family, or what she had suffered in King’s Landing, first in the cells of the Sept and thereafter after the wildfire, had ever created so much grief in her eyes.

At the time when Margaery had talked about it, Sansa could not put a finger on what made it seem so powerful that Margaery told her. It had been on her fingertips, but she had not been capable of reaching it. That had bothered Sansa beyond belief. Because she could sense the significance, that it was valuable information, but she had not realized in which form yet. She had landed on the conclusion that maybe the remembrances of a first love were as magnificent as they described them in the romantic tales. Maybe it was something that caused your heart to speed up even years later, could still cause you ache years later.

Sansa had limited insight on this matter herself. The couple of times where she deemed to have been in love, it had not been more than infatuation. With Joffrey it had been more the charming vision of a handsome prince, of being his princess, his queen one day, that had brought her heart to beat faster. That had ended suddenly when it was him that had sole hand in destroyed her whole world as he had ordered the death of her father. The other affection she had carried, was for Loras Tyrell. But there, she had realized maybe even back then, she had cherished the prospect of leaving King’s Landing and of being free of Joffrey a great deal more than Loras himself.

It had appeared as a surprise to hear Margaery talk so candidly about how the sole person she ever loved, was a girl. The way she had spoken about it, it had almost sounded like it was nothing uncommon. Sansa was not in an ivory tower. She understood that there are some women who favoured women, and men who preferred men, but she had estimated it as very uncommon occurrences. Something that was more a concern in Dorne, or in the free cities, not an appreciation that anybody she knew held. Yet, clearly in Highgarden it did not seem like quite such an extraordinary circumstance? With what Margaery had revealed about Loras, and according to her description, love in general was presumed as the dilemma by Lady Olenna, not that Margaery held this affection towards a young woman. 

Sansa had never assumed it as something that was in the cards for highborn people. Something that someone with Margaery’s social status would ever dream of acting on. That thought intrigued her more than anything. Mainly because it was not something she had ever deemed…as a prospect?

Margaery, who stopped in her tracks without warning and drew in air sharply, forced her chasing thoughts to an unexpected halt. It took Sansa an instant to catch up; she glanced at Margaery and noticed her face frozen in forewarning, her whole posture straightened.

Her eyes required a moment to readjust and receive what alarmed Margaery so considerably. Merely the growl from ahead of them gave her some kind of indication, and with it she almost instantly saw the pair of crimson eyes peering at them. Ghost was wholly fixated on Margaery, grinding his teeth and not leaving her from his view, bracing to attack if Sansa would make the command. For just split of a second Sansa watched the scene with an undeniable fascination. Margaery had seemed to stop breathing, as if she was anxious that a false move would lead to her throat being ripped apart by the wolf.

“Ghost!” she chided in an affectionate fashion. “Down.”

As she demanded, the direwolf obeyed the command and his aggressive posture changed within the flicker of a look, like he could never hurt even a fly. He trotted towards Sansa in almost lazy steps and brushed his head along on the skirt of her robe.

“So that’s where you’ve been hiding out,” she whispered to him in a loving manner.

Ghost had withdrawn when Jon left. Even though she knew he was still around, he had not sought for her proximity. It was a relief to see he was here, ready to defend her from anyone that could be a threat to her.

Sansa’s initial attempt to draw her attention to the direwolf was firmly stopped in Margaery refusing to let go of her arm, and Sansa could not conceal the smile that this produced on her lips. Margaery clutched on to her hand firmly in her grip, her face still lacking any colour. When she had no idea how to even glance at Margaery or talk to her a moment ago, now it was quite simple. Perhaps because Ghost’s presence grounded her, perhaps because she could not stand to see Margaery so genuinely fearful.

She gave Margaery’s hand a solid squeeze. “He’s quite the puppy, I promise.” 

Margaery’s eyebrows were up to her hairline, but it looked like she had started breathing again and tentatively released the iron grip she had on Sansa’s fingers.

It did Sansa good to produce some distance between them; it helped her arrange her thoughts, and in the moment Sansa crouched down in front of the wolf and passed her fingers through his soft fur, her mind was blank. She loved the warmth and the safety he provided. He reminded her of Lady, of happier times, of him and his pack romping thought the courtyard. Occasionally she wondered if he felt dreadfully alone being the only one left behind. She pressed her face into his fur for a small moment and breathed in the familiar smell that almost reminded her of Jon. Then got back to her feet, petted Ghost’s fur for only for another moment before sending him off in the opposite direction, and with no hesitance the wolf complied.

When she finally dared to look at a still pale Margaery, she carried a repentant face. “I hope he did not startle you too much.”

Margaery did not try to disguise how alarmed she had been and wrapped her arms around herself. “I’ll plead to that once the feeling has returned to my legs.”

Sansa laughed gently. “He’s highly defensive,” she disclosed. “So you shouldn’t be embarrassed. Ghost has a similar effect on most.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Margaery huffed with a disconcerted expression on her face. “There’s no reason. I only presented a healthy reaction to a wild creature threatening me.”

It was easier to talk to her with some distance between them, Sansa realized. When her head was not swimming and distracted by her touch, her warmth, her scent. It was likewise a lot easier when the ever so expressive and put together Margaery Tyrell was almost comically shaken up, like it rattled up the pure image Sansa had of her in her mind just the slightest bit and made her more approachable.

“You looked so frightened, I expected you’d faint any moment,” Sansa accused in a mocking manner. This light banter was easy, it was something she felt she could control.

“And she was right to be,” a voice echoed from behind them, making both of them twist around. Arya’s tone on its own held a particular degree of menace. “He could have ripped your throat out, before you even open your mouth to cry for help.”

Arya came to a stop an efficient two arm lengths away from them. The way she kept her hands clutched behind herself, made it look like she was merely wandering through the night casually, but her bolt upright posture, and her constantly piercing, almost leery eyes revealed a different story.

Annoyance quickly followed the initial bewilderment of meeting her sister. “Not to someone who isn’t a threat,” Sansa answered her sorely.

“Why would he growl at someone who isn’t a threat?” Arya wondered out loud and a slight frown on her face, that made her appear more confused than she was. “I wonder what set him off? Normally he has an excellent judge of character.”

Sansa did not know whether Arya wanted to suggest that she was the threat here or Margaery. Either way it crossed her, as she assumed her sister had calculated, and her own posture straightened as well and she lifted her chin.

“Ghost merely expected no one here at this hour. That was what provoked him,” she clarified firmly.

Arya looked at her in that certain way. The same way she had the other day where she had accused her of playing a dishonest game. Accused her of being a threat to Jon. Like she was staring right into her mind and perceived things that even Sansa herself did not know yet.

“It is very late, to be roaming around the Gods Wood,” Arya noted. 

Sansa raised her brows, foolish enough for a flash that she could spin the tables on her sister. “And yet you are here.”

“I find that a nightly walk in the fresh air can do wonders,” Arya stated.

She recognized that Littlefinger had used the same words only yesterday. The unease Sansa felt growing within her, let her eyes become more distant and made her raise her head even higher.

“I don’t want to keep you any longer,” Arya said dismissively before Sansa replied anything. “It’s an awfully cold night. Good night, Sansa.”

“Good night,” Sansa returned, and held Arya’s eyes for a couple more seconds before her sister turned around and retreated as quietly into the night as she had approached them.

Sansa felt as troubled as unsettled at the encounter. She did not consider it a coincidence for even a moment that Arya had run into them. But what did Arya want to accomplish with this? What about repeating Littlefinger’s words to her? Was that her subtle way of letting her know she was following her? Spying on her even? The prospect of that felt dreadful. As if she did not have enough on her hands with Littlefinger. She did not need her sister contradicting her as much as she did.

When they were children, it had been Arya greatest joy to frightening her and her friends, to play jokes on them which would cause them to shriek and cry. It was a quality in her sister she had never particularly appreciated. But this now? Arya nearly threatening her? Threatening Margaery by extent, whom she didn’t even know? No, that was something Sansa felt went too far. She would have to talk to her. Figure out, what made her so vicious. And let her know she was not the ten-year-old girl anymore who would tolerate it. If Arya kept on antagonizing her, she would have to do something.

If Margaery had thoughts about the encounter, she kept them to herself. She looked to be quietly contemplating about what had just taken place, and Sansa could only hope it was the threat of Ghost that weighed heavier on her mind than Arya’s veiled words.

As much as it had confused her and engulfed her, she almost yearned to have only the distracting thoughts regarding Margaery back, because while those had felt like more than she could bare, at least the notion behind them was a lot more positive.

To gather her feelings and pull them back on course, on a more neutral ground, Sansa closed her eyes for a moment to get rid of the frustration and the resentment that blocked her briefly. When she opened them again, Margaery was right in front of her and had reached for her hand offering it a reassuring squeeze.

“Are you all right?”

Sansa forced a smile on her face that did not reach close to being real. “Just tired,” she declared and thought Margaery maybe understood that she was not only speaking about a desire for sleep.

Margaery watched her thoroughly. She asked no further questions, just had this pained and yet comforting expression in her eyes. Showing she cared. Sansa felt like she was melting under her look and gradually, the intensity from before returned to her body. And once again she was aware how extremely close they remained. And that they were all alone again.

“She has this way of making me livid,” Sansa admitted then. “She always has. But this roundabout way she is speaking to me now, threatening me, denouncing me of unspoken things… It makes me unspeakably angry.”

“Because she is making false assumptions?” Margaery guessed carefully.

“Because she does not consider what she is saying,” Sansa exclaimed. “She assumes she knows me. She looks at me and sees the stupid girl she knew years ago. Thinks I’m capable of deceiving my family. She has no idea who I am. Or what I have been through. What I have suffered and survived, to get where I am now.”

“Neither do you,” Margaery reminded gently. “Not about what she’s been through. Or what she’s seen. What she has endured.”

Sansa leaned back against a tree and sighed. She knew Margaery was right. But without knowing the extent of her sister’s struggles, it was a lot clearer to just focus on her own. Not focus, maybe, but prioritize. Margaery continued watching at her with those big beautiful eyes full of tenderness, but ultimately it was not enough to sooth the anger she held.

Sansa knew it all was dreadfully unfair, but it was not just Arya who had lost her parents at a way too young age. Who’d been cheated of all. Security. A home. Comfort. And if there were horrid events Arya had overcome why could she not find some empathy in herself for her own sister? What allowed her the right to saunter around accusing Sansa? Why was Sansa expected to act civil towards her when Arya could not seem to be bothered to do the same?

“Can I ask you to be on my side in this?” Sansa asked then, looking at Margaery. “I like that you are trying to be neutral and balancing, but I just need someone on my side in this.”

Margaery smiled gently and abruptly was one more time way too close for Sansa to think. Her hand reached out and cupped the side of Sansa’s face and her thumb smoothed over her cheekbone as if it was sweeping away a tear.

“How could I not be on your side, sweet girl?,” she asked, her expression so deeply heartfelt. “Whose side could I be on if not yours?”

The term of endearment was not new, but almost more meaningful to Sansa than Margaery’s remark on its own. But even heavier was Margaery’s proximity as she delivered those words.

In all of these freshly discovered feelings, she had been concentrated entirely on that, on what they meant and what they brought along. Now with Margaery standing so close, the question of what acting on these feelings would be like, crossed Sansa’s mind for the first time. If just the delight of Margaery being adjacent to her, looking at her and caressing her face, could provoke her heart to race as extreme as it did, how much grander would other parts be?

What would it feel like to kiss her?

The image sent a jolt through Sansa’s body and she knew her face was burning despite the cold and the ankle-deep snow she stood in. Quickly she dropped her head, hoping dearly that it would not be evident in the faint light they were in.

Her mind only served her a bit clearer again when Margaery’s touch slipped from her face. The moment had passed and Sansa did not know whether to feel relieved or devastated.

“Would you be opposed to making our way back?” Margaery suggested then. “The cold is becoming a bit more than I can handle, I’m afraid.”

Sansa nodded almost automatically even though she was nearly certain it was a lie for her sake. All evening, Margaery had been close to pacing in growing restlessness to eventually go outside, she doubted that she was even halfway ready to go back inside after only such a brief tour. Sansa appreciated it though, the way Margaery had read her own desire, and her own eagerness to call it a night. It was this absolute simplicity when she was with Margaery; she didn’t have to say how she felt, or what she required. Somehow Margaery always seemed to know it and respond so naturally accordingly.

She would have been wrong if she thought Margaery would just abandon the problem altogether, though. They had been walking in silence next to each other only for a short while when Margaery spoke up again.

“Not claiming that I’m not on your side, but where does your brother stand in all of this?”

“Bran?” Sansa asked. “To be honest, he seems in his own world... He is nothing like I remember him.”

Once again, she felt reminded pf how greatly unfair it was. That everyone had changed so significantly whether or not they wanted to. That she had grown apart from her siblings so much. How different would their ways of life have been if they had never been separated? With Arya, she hesitated to assume that they would now be incredibly tight, but at least there would not be this degree of mistrust and this bitterness. And with Bran there would not be this sense of meeting a complete stranger.

“He gets these visions now,” Sansa continued. “He can see things. Things that have passed, and events that are taking place right now.”

Margaery looked at her puzzled.

Sansa shrugged. “I don’t fully get it myself. But he was beyond the wall and that has changed him.” So very much. “He knows things. Things he couldn’t possibly know.”

Her mind travelled momentarily to the talk she and Bran had had when he first come home and to their conversation with Arya later. Sansa was not sure how Brann’s ability worked, but she had no doubt that it was real.

“I just wish Jon would finally come back,” Sansa admitted then.

She did not even know how he was, or if he was still alive. There had been no response to the raven she sent him, informing him about Arya’s and Bran’s return to Winterfell. Sometimes she honestly could not fault the Lords of the North for their distrust towards him. What kind of King just took off, leaving his realm behind and could not even bother with a short report. A brief update. What kind of brother did that?

“After all that I have gathered about him and after everything you told me… I’m looking forward to meeting him in person,” Margaery said.

Sansa did not know where the thought came from, but she swiftly knew that she was not looking forward to that at all. She even dreaded it to some extent. The thought rose unease within her. And not the kind it should. She was not concerned about power struggles or even Winterfell… she was unsettled about the possibility of losing Margaery to Jon.  Dare she say… jealous at the sheer prospect of them meeting?

“I can hear the wheels in your head turning,” Margaery said with a smile. “What is it?”

Only then Sansa realized how long she had been silent and she very much wished that the blush that inched up on her face was not visible to Margaery. She felt caught and the way Margaery looked at her almost had her worrying that she could gather her concerns.

“I was just imagining the two of you meeting,” Sansa said then. “That would surely be two worlds colliding.”

Margaery chuckled. “The bastard King and the abolished Queen,” she mused. “Sounds like a great old legend, if you ask me.”

Sansa felt another thump of that miserable jealousy. It did sound like a great tale. A grand alliance. Something like right out of one of those romantic novels she used to love. “He’s a kind man. Strong and smart. I’m certain you will cherish him from the moment you meet.”

“How could I not?” she asked with the hint of a smile. “He shares your blood.”

One more time Sansa hoped that her face did not display what Margaery’s words stirred within her. The jolt in her stomach. The heat rising to her cheeks yet again. The achingly growing affection for Margaery. With every word she spoke. Every time she looked at her or smiled at her.

Why now? Sansa wondered. She was at a stage in her life where she felt content for the first time in a long while. Why were these strange, these wonderful feelings coming along now? She had so much else she would need to think about. So much she should worry about. And ultimately, all she could recall were Margaery’s words. Her smile. How her skin seemed to burn under her touch. The sound of her voice. It was infuriating. But in the very best sense. Only terribly distracting all at the same moment. And confusing.

For the longest time Sansa would have sworn that she did not even carry the tiniest trace of aspiration for all of that anymore. For that grand all enclosing, earth shattering love. It had been more like an afterthought for her, something that might have been nice once upon a time, but that was behind her.

Yet, something about the way Margaery had spoken about it, the glint that had been in her eyes when she’d talked about those joyous days and emotions. Margaery was as a pragmatic of a person as she knew, maybe more so than herself, but if even she described it as glorious, maybe there was something to it. Something that made it worth it.

She whirled the thought a little further and challenged herself if this was something she could even allow herself. Could she make herself quite that vulnerable? That depended on someone else? Trust someone so much? Even if it was Margaery?

Maybe, was all she could decide for now.

The path back seemed longer than their way outside. They were largely silent through it. Sansa hung up on her thoughts, and Margaery either respecting that, or seized up with some pondering on her own.

Minutes passed in silence. Even when they were back within the privacy of Sansa’s chamber and ridding themselves of their warm cloaks, neither of them spoke yet. It was not an uncomfortable silence though. It never was with them. They merely stepped around and next to each other in a familiarity that had sneaked up on them the preceding weeks they now had spent in such close quarters. When Margaery had first moved in to the chamber adjoining hers, Sansa had been concerned about her privacy. She was someone who could enjoy solitude. From time to time had yearned for it even. So she had worried that someone always being nearby would invade that. Would bother her. Yet without her realizing it Margaery had blended into her everyday routine, to where she became something that Sansa realized she would not choose to be without anymore.

More than once the question if this was because of those certain sentiments, rushed through Sansa’s mind. Like she was suddenly questioning everything she thought she knew.

Margaery only tore the silence when she was already in the middle of brushing Sansa’s hair after she’d loosened the braids she had put into it so delicately in the morning.

Thoughtfully she stroked through the mane with her fingers, and her words almost sounded like she was thinking out loud. “You might think about washing your hair in the next couple of days.”

Sansa quirked an eyebrow and met Margaery’s eyes through the mirror. “Are you suggesting my hair is filthy?”

Margaery smiled at the playfulness in Sansa’s words. “No, just a little dry.”

“Excuse me?” Sansa’s head twisted around so promptly that the strand that Margaery was amidst brushing slipped from her fingers. She peered up at an entertained face.

Margaery shrugged, smirking at how upset Sansa was by the critic of her hair. “I’m just thinking it could be more shiny,” she clarified and softly used her fingers to put Sansa’s head back forward. “My maid used to have this marvellous mixture she’d put on my hair after every washing. She swore that it made it shimmer in the best way.”

“What did she put into it?”

Margaery chuckled. “Ugh, it smelled horrid. I think it was root beer, eggs, some cumin oil and wine.”

Sansa was not persuaded. She made a face. “Nothing of that sounds like they could have a desirable effect on hair.”

“It worked though,” Margaery assured. “And I always ended up with those beautiful waves, when she braided it thereafter.”

Sansa shook her head. “I think I’ll sick to soap.”

Margaery smiled faintly. “I suppose you are right,” she breathed. “Whereto with even more beauty.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

Margaery met her eyes through the reflection, something shifting in her face. Sansa felt fingertips at the nape of her neck that seemed to linger for a moment longer than needed, a thumb moving in a narrow circle before it drew away. “Not in the slightest,” she vowed then. “You’re exquisite. You don’t need any cures or remedies.”

The compliment warmed Sansa’s inside in a sense she had never had it before. It was not the first occasion in her life someone bid her a compliment. But it was the first time it seemed like it mattered. Like she craved to hear it.

Her eyes did not leave Margaery’s face even after she had broken their eye contact and had moved her attention back to braiding Sansa’s hair into a simple tight braid. And she kept on wondering, what in the world was developing here. What was happening to her? To them? What was this shift that now was gone as quickly as it had appeared? Had Margaery felt it too? Her expression was neutral. Her eyes lowered, the same smooth smile on her lips she wore most of the time. Nothing in her face revealed that something altered. Nothing in Margaery’s behaviour really indicated something in that context. Her smile was no different than the one she repeatedly looked at her with. Her words were just as kind as they ever had been. Her voice just as pleasant.

 And yet, for Sansa it was like her entire life had suddenly changed.

Margaery took a step back when she had completed her task on Sansa’s hair. She had that polite facial expression she always had shortly before she wished Sansa a good night.

“Margaery.”

Sansa did not want her to leave yet, she required her to remain a little longer.

When Margaery looked at her expectantly for a moment she did not know what should follow. Her mind was void for any possible words to speak. Only when her eyes landed on the book that Margaery had been reading earlier and she got to her feet and plucked it from the table. When she held it out to Margaery, that insecurity was back, because it was conceivably the dullest thing she could come up with.

Still with an appreciative nod Margaery took the book from her. She detained and turned it for a moment between her hands. “For a mellow sleep?” she guessed with a soft smile.

“Something like that,” Sansa’s lips arched and with the way Margaery brushed her palms over the front a flash from earlier came back to her. She sat back into the vanity chair and blinked up at Margaery. “Will you read something to me? I feel I could use some mellow thoughts myself.”

Margaery hesitated, which was curious on its own. Because Margaery did not hesitate. She always appeared so confident in all she did. Now she seemed undecided, contemplating, and Sansa felt terribly uneasy. Did this all just feel like that because of these feelings? Did she interpret way too much into each one of Margaery’s actions suddenly?

Then Margaery moved to half lean, half stand against the surface of the vanity, and Sansa wondered if this affinity was new altogether or if she just noticed it now for the first time. The way that Margaery always seemed to stand or sit so very close to her. She focused on Margaery’s fingers as they swept over the pages and then came to a hold at a particular page.

“May there be moments in your life, where your present is not tarnished by the past, and no future concern keeps you from enjoying. So you solely are; without wanting, with no need, only feeling yourself; in this very moment.”

Margaery read the phrases calmly and carefully. Pronouncing every word in the way in what Sansa imagined the writer had envisioned it. Paused at the appropriate spots, laid just the right emphasis on others; her tone almost solemn enough to give Sansa goose bumps. And then Margaery lowered the book then and gave her that smile, the one she could never help return.

“Consoling words,” Sansa noted.

Margaery nodded and smiled almost shyly. “It made me think of you.”

She could not have helped the beam that had extended over her face even if she’d tried. Margaery correctly picking a passage so fitting struck her. It was astonishing how those few words expressed completely how the previous afternoon had felt. How she constantly felt when Margaery was around.

When she met Margaery’s eyes, that distressing and still wonderful churning returned to her gut, like she was sick, only not unpleasant at all.

This was more than just a figment, she understood. So much more. This was all overwhelming, earthshakingly, a blazing sky full of fire; it held the prospect to either make her as happy as she had ever been or wreck her once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you for the overwhelming response to the last chapter, to everyone who commented, gave Kudos and/or subscribed. You guys are my motivation and each and everyone of those numbers going up makes me incredibly happy.   
> Of course I'm very, very curious how you felt and think about Sansa's course of realisation in this chapter. We are moving forward with these two. Slowly, but surely. And something tells me you guys will enjoy the next Margaery chapter a great deal :)


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dears, I hope you are all enjoying the holidays! I wanted to offer you my own little present in form of an update, especially for those of you who might need a break from all those joyful festivities. (Really there is nothing like subtly trying to read fanfiction surrounded by your loved ones and having to answer what you are smiling about.)
> 
> On another note: I ask you treat kindly on any grammar and spelling mistakes in this chapter, as it is not beta'd yet. My impatient and the need to share this got the better of me, but I hope you will be able to enjoy it still.
> 
> ETA: 31/12/18: Now edited and hopefully good readable.

Playing the handmaid in public every day was a lot harder than Margaery would have ever foreseen. It was not the obligations that came with the role itself. She did not regard herself too valuable for refilling cups, supporting Sansa with errands, clearing a table after a meal or being at an arm’s width for whatever else it was that Sansa needed. Margaery had been at the receiving side of well-meant attention by a whole army of servants for most of her life, to perceive what mattered and how to act.

If anything, it appeared Sansa had more issues with that- with providing directions and requests. Most of the time she looked essentially hesitant and embarrassed to do so, spoke merely in a quiet tone and with concession in it. It was charming, this mild feel of uneasiness, and the way she practically sounded on the verge of apologising, no matter how regularly Margaery declared that it was not a trouble. Honestly, it was quite the contrary; after such a great time of lethargy, it was good to have something to do, even if it were menial tasks.

It was the lingering in the background that wound up to be the bigger problem. A good servant is an unseen servant, they said, and while not entirely untrue, that was not something that came easy to Margaery Tyrell. Someone had once told her she was a born queen, and that testimony was not wrong.

Margaery was by essence not someone to whom holding back to came simply. For so many years she had been the centre of attention in each room she stepped into. All eyes were on her for diverse reasons- for her feminine charms, her style and posture, her kindness. It was a thing Margaery thrived at, entertaining a hall crowded with people. Dazzling them with her laugh, her looks or her stories. She was accustomed to a healthy degree of admiration from those surrounding her; she required it to prosper, to breathe, had always.

It was just that trait that represented her as such a threat to Cersei. As a queen, they had worshipped her while they dreaded Cersei. When Margaery came in a room heads were spinning towards her, admiring her, desiring to receive a word from her; with Cersei, just the contrary. Debates died down and expressions turned blank with reverence. Margaery had been the queen everybody yearned for. Beautiful, approachable, kind.

Even as just a newborn, so they had told her, she had drawn all attention to herself. As this delightful little babe with big eyes and golden curls, the bravest and strongest knights had not held out long before she enchanted them with her radiant smile. Her family had soon understood to employ that extraordinary gift for their own purposes. As a girl not much older than five years she had regularly been present when her grandmother met visitors of value. Either running around the room playing, or right at the table, that she could not yet see over, even in her grandmother’s lap. She was the secret weapon of Olenna Tyrell even back then. There to disarm awkward or boring exchanges, to remind people of what gorgeous innocence they were threatening when threatening house Tyrell.

This had not changed as she matured. She’d been around to entertain, to delight with her reading or singing, but also to learn. Sometimes without realising so just as she observed specific expressions or courses of dealing her grandmother showed. She was a great deal like her grandmother, but Olenna lacked that special natural charm Margaery carried along so smoothly, albeit she made up for it with wit and briefness; Margaery was proud to claim she picked up both. She was not frightened to declare what was on her mind, but at the same time knew how to veil unpleasant words in the appropriate manner.

Taking herself back from actively reflecting on a conversation as it moved along was hard for her, nearly painful. Not alone because Margaery wasn’t a very restrained person but also because she had a definite sense wiseacre. Swallowing comments when she perceived to have a better judgment than her opposite left a sour taste in her mouth. A situation like that arose several times before noon rolled around just in the first day she spent with Sansa. Nevertheless she bit her tongue and limited herself to provide her own opinion once they were on their own.

Contradicting a Lord, or even a forger, was not appropriate for a maid. Speaking to Sansa like they had become accustomed to even less so. There could be no mischievous banter, or opposing words. That was not the proper form to speak to a Lady Stark of Winterfell, and she highly doubted that Sansa allowed it with anyone besides herself. Especially the affectionate teasing that had grown more and more frequent over the recent days. That was risky for a multitude of separate reasons, but specifically in earshot of other people. People like Lord Baelish.

The look of dismay on his face when Margaery had emerged on Sansa’s side in the great hall for the first time had been brief, but Margaery had noticed it still and held his gaze with a challenging look of her own. When he’d supposed that his revelations had left her devastated she now stood before him smiling proudly, with her head held high, and that had felt incredible. Polished phrases of greeting had passed his lips, something along the lines of praising Sansa for her wise choice to engage Margaery and the great consult she’d be able to offer in her everyday duties. For Margaery, however, it was without question that he did not appreciate Sansa going against his original advice one bit.

The more time Margaery spent with him, the more she was certain she loathed the man. His entire interaction with Sansa, the looks, the way he talked to her, all of that she had considered inappropriate and pitiful before, now created the not-so-subtle craving of feeding him his own testicles. What did he expect would come of this? That Sansa would return his affections one day? Was he that preposterous? Did he not have eyes and understand that Sansa was not solely irritated but also very much bothered by him?

The dismissive way of Sansa -that she herself had been on the receiving end of and not always particularly appreciated- was a thing she found insanely enjoyable in her dealings with Lord Baelish. She constantly looked a moment away from rolling her eyes at him. The way she’d cut him off mid sentences, just when he thought he was passing on an astute argument, had Margaery concealing a grin more than just once.

It was a cheerful notion, but one that was not without risk. She did not want to draw Littlefinger’s resentment on herself, or have him assuming that she had anything to do with Sansa’s growing irritation in him. She was on the brink with him either way; she did not need to add unnecessary distrust or hazard to what he perceived when he looked at her. After all, maybe he could yet be useful to her.

Besides that somewhat amusing interaction with Lord Baelish, seeing Sansa’s daily work up close was much less compelling than Margaery had envisioned. In fact Sansa was not incorrect when she’d hinted that returning to her novels and sewing would be something she would long for quickly. The things Sansa had to worry about were dull for the majority of them. So trivial that it took Margaery all until noon hour before she marvelled how Sansa did not run and escape from her course of work every single day.

She did, however, hold a genuine admiration for the way Sansa handled it all. The thoughtful, attentive, caring expression she wore through the most petty news or dullest plea, the way she held herself, the way she carried out decisions. Always carefully thought out, compassionate, logical, but finally kind, with a great consideration. Whether it was the stable boy or a high Lord that she spoke with.

She radiated a grace that Margaery had not witnessed just like this on her before. The image she presented was no doubt a mask, but at that an elegant one. A tempting one. It was no secret leadership, people who held power had always captivated Margaery. Watching the manner in which Sansa held authority over men thrice her age, and twice her physique, the way she made crucial choices, and people around just followed her lead… well, it served no help with the sentiments that were brewing inside Margaery.  

She was beyond trying to resist them. Did not want to anymore, not truly. They were too enjoyable. Provoking too much in her. The sole diversion in a world that was remarkably bleak. Their constant proximity also made them unavoidable. She could not avoid Sansa, so what was the harm in enjoying them?

There was a certain shift in their friendship that she did not know what to make of entirely. She too wasn’t oblivious to the way Sansa’s eyes seemed to linger on her more and more when she felt she paid no attention. Margaery was not sure yet if that was purely a backlash to the staring she caught herself in often or if it was something else. She did not care. It was what made all about her pretended role of a meek handmaiden bearable. That she had Sansa’s attention wherever they were or moved. That as soon as they were on their own, Sansa demanded her opinion.

Maybe being the light of the room did not matter, Margaery considered, as long as the right person still had their focus on you.

Margaery tried not to speculate too much about those lingering looks from Sansa as she was uncertain that these kinds of perceptions were something that Sansa even knew of. She had made no hint of that sort. Any indication Sansa had offered her where her preference lay only suggested that she was interested in men. Margaery remembered the way dreamy way Sansa had gushed on about her brother back in King’s Landing. It was childish, back then it had annoyed her; she had felt bad for Sansa’s ill-fated affections for a man who would never return those. Now, when she reflected on it, there was a touch of jealousy she discovered within herself. Whether it developed from the memory or was a new emotion, she could not truly differ, but it was most undeniably there.

It was late afternoon when they were sitting in Sansa’s solar and she glanced up from the book in her hands, giving up on reading the same verse for the twentieth time and her gaze settled on Sansa, who was sitting at her desk, scribbling something. Her face was full of concentration, wrapped up in what she was working on. She had taken off the gloves she commonly wore and Margaery could detect a spreading smudge of ink on her pointer finger. Her gaze would occasionally raise from the script in front of her and stare out blankly into the distance. Margaery speculated what it was she was reflecting about at those points. How to express what she would write? Was she searching for a phrase in particular? Or where her thoughts elsewhere altogether?

She felt slightly caught when Sansa’s eyes drifted to her, but Margaery was nothing if not a great actress and so she smiled at her merrily in response. Funnily enough it was Sansa that looked a like a kid caught doing something they were not supposed to, but that just flashed over her face momentarily and then she frowned.

“What’s a respectful form to call someone irritating?”

Margaery swayed her head with a smile. “In what context?”

“’I cannot claim I sympathize with your annoying persistence very much.’”

With pursed lips, Margaery contemplated. “Are you looking for polite or diplomatic?”

“I presumed the two don’t go individually.” Sansa lowered the quill and took a succinct look at the sheet of paper in front of her, then back at Margaery. “You can’t very well be insulting and diplomatic at the same time.”

“You have met my grandmother, right?” Margaery responded with a light chuckle.

At the perplexity at Sansa’s face, Margaery put the book aside and walked to stand on Sansa’s right.

“May I?” she asked with an indication to the desk.

Sansa merely nodded and leaned back in her armchair with a heavy exhale. Pulling the letter from the desk, Margaery braced herself against the desk top and scan Sansa’s exquisite script.

“You’re a bit brazen in parts,” she resolved thus and pushed the note back in front of Sansa. “But not impolitic, rather delightfully defiant I’d say.”

“I’m not confident that Lady Mormont is delighted all that quickly.”

“Conclude with by encouraging her ever so warmly to visit Winterfell,” Margaery recommended. “If you can’t strike the suitable mood in writing I’m certain you will achieve that in person.”

Sansa considered the suggestion. She did not speak for a moment, her finger’s fiddled with quill and her eyes never left Margaery’s. “You make a good point,” she eventually declared.

Margaery smiled self-evidently. “Of course I do.” She added a teasing grin to her expression. “How could you even assume something else?”

Sansa rolled her eyes in half-hearted exasperation. “Self-regard does not become you half as much as you assume.”

Margaery bit her lip, before the most alluring smile she could muster appeared on her face. “I think we both know it’s one of my best looks.”

Sansa held Margaery’s eye without blinking. “I don’t think you have any poor ones,” she returned in a tone that was only to a trained ear like Margaery’s a little rougher and more husky than normal.

Margaery lowered her gaze, then peered through batted eyelashes, a sweet smile set on her mouth, but she replied nothing. Sansa too remained quiet, but continued observing Margaery. This time the silence between them seemed to carry something, seemed relative somehow.

A part of Margaery wanted to squirm under the eyes on her, but again, it was not because she was distressed with it. Quite the contrary, and that maybe was worrying her more than all. She did not fight to tear her focus elsewhere, away from Sansa, knew that it was no use and resignation had never felt so fantastic.

The contemplation about the prospect of not alone granting herself to have this desire for Sansa, but also to imagine what it could lead to, was not new, but it grew louder in her mind, harder to ignore.

What it would be like to hold Sansa in her arms? Not in an amicable, comforting embrace, but one so tight like you wanted to merge into one person instead of two; where you could feel a heartbeat and no longer be sure if it was your own.

What would it be like to be the one to show her that feelings shared between two people could be just about the grandest thing on earth? The kind that made risking everything for worth it, where you were not in command of your own mind anymore and it did not matter.

How glorious would it feel to be the reason Sansa realized that all those romance tales were more than just pretty words? That love sometimes really felt like it could conquer all, that it could save you and erase any pain you ever felt.

Maybe she could be the one to show her that, like she had once before so many years ago. Be the one who made Sansa hope again, dream again. Be the one to show her what being young -acting young- meant, and make her forget that she ever thought being sheltered behind these granite walls for the rest of her existence in seclusion was the better option.

It was no use to deny it. She wanted Sansa Stark. It felt like she had craved for nothing in her life as badly before. And this realisation thrilled her as much as it terrified her.

“I’m sorry for disturbing.”

Margaery wanted to groan in annoyance, but instead tore her eyes away from Sansa and directed them to Lord Baelish who was standing in the door.

“The short notice has me thinking it is important?” Sansa did not seem a hint happier with his appearance, but nevertheless looked at him expectantly.

“Indeed.”

As if it was all the encouragement he required, he sat down where Margaery had sat only a minute ago and showed them a serious face. Margaery stood up straight and crossed her arms in front of her; being so clear in Lord Baelish’s view made her nervous, but she felt that she’d rather be on Sansa’s side of the desk instead of his.

“We received reports that the King in the North’s ship has landed at Eastwatch a couple of days ago.”

A frown presented on Sansa’s face upon receiving this statement, one that suggested unease. Her eyes were now solidly on Lord Baelish, suggesting that this had captured her concern.

“What in the world is he doing there?”

Littlefinger grimaced, as if it was miserable having to notify her about this. “The report hints that he moved beyond the wall with a small group of warriors.”

“That’s madness,” Sansa said with a disbelieving shake of her head. “Jon knows about the threats that exist beyond the wall better than anybody.”

It was definitely strange, Margaery had to concede. According to Sansa’s words her brother was with Daenerys Targaryen to consider an alliance, to prepare his army for the war that was impending, that now he was just with a few men beyond the wall made limited sense.

“I was anticipating, that you perhaps received a notice from him, elaborating his plans…?”

Sansa shook her head curtly. “No. I haven’t heard from him in weeks.”

He was completely aware that Sansa had not heard from Jon. This was his very elaborate course of pointing that out to her. Margaery hoped that it was not merely herself who was aware of the try of manipulation that lay behind his words.

Littlefinger sighed. “I feared you would say that.” He flexed and unflexed his palms into one another, then he gave Sansa a poignant expression. “Word has attained the Northern Lords. You can imagine their discontent, that the King travelled so far North, without an appearance here or even a note of the purpose.”

From the little that Margaery had seen of the northern lords within the last couple of days she could very easily imagine how that reception had been. Their king returning north only to travel directly to the Night’s Watch position was inconsiderate at best, at worst an insult. It would be of house Starks best interest to give them an explanation for that rather quickly.

“You could send a raven to Dragon Stone,” Margaery weighed in with an idea. “Tyrion Lannister should be capable to provide you with an explanation of the purpose of this journey.”

When her eyes landed on Margaery, Sansa looked considerate, with an ever so gentle smile that showed appreciation for her contribution. 

“A good idea,” Sansa agreed. “I’m positive that if someone has knowledge of what is progressing, it’s him.”

“I beg to differ,” Lord Baelish insisted with a shake of his head. “It would needlessly emphasize your past betrothal to him. And maybe reinforce their distrust.”

She doubted that he differed with her because he didn’t like the suggestion. For certain, anybody contradicting his influence on Sansa had to be a torment for him, but Margaery would not let go of what she considered was appropriate just like that.

“That’s ludicrous,” Margaery opposed with a shake of her head. “They would not hold a query for report against her.”

Sansa looked thoughtful however and again glanced at Margaery, almost remorseful because she had to side with Lord Baelish.

“They might,” she stated.

“It’s best not to emphasize a former marriage to one of her house enemies,” Littlefinger agreed, only barely able to obscure the condensation from his expression and tone.

Even though she stood by her opinion that it was ridiculous that someone could hold a marriage that had been forced on Sansa when she had been not much more than a child against her, Margaery reminded herself that things were handled a bit different up North than what she had grown accustomed to. She narrowed her eyes on Lord Baelish, wanting to hear what he would suggest instead. 

“What would you propose?” She was not entirely able to keep a hint of pique beneath out of her well-kept composure and indifferent face.

“She should offer them a vague, credible explanation until we have better information” he submitted as a solution, his eyes rigidly on Sansa.

Margaery’s eyebrows shot up and she crossed her arms and eyed him with a particular sceptic look. That was not good advice, did not even come close to it, and he very well knew that. Had he merely lost his subtly or was there more to this?

“Lie to them?” Sansa breathed, appeared not to like the thought very much either.

“Even a poor lie, would be better right now than the truth, which is that we don’t have, because he did not trouble to educate us,” Littlefinger pointed out.

“Lying to increase someone’s trust?” Margaery was unable to keep her mouth shut any longer and it felt as if, for a moment, the spirit of her grandmother controlled her and forced some rather tactless words out. “Forgive me Lord Baelish, but I assumed you had more diplomatic skill than that.”

There was a small tightening in Littlefinger’s jaw, which made her regret those words. Margaery, however, held his look resolutely. They both wore polite smiles as they silently held their struggle for Sansa’s agreement.

Normally she knew better than to contradict him, he just had this manner of making her furious. Her own diplomatic skills were probably not in the finest shape if she was short-sighted enough to point his lack of so directly. The rational side of her brain had turned off and she could not forge a tactful sentences if her life depended on it, not while he was eyeing Sansa like he was right now.   

“We’ll send a raven to Eastwatch,” Sansa declared, breaking the tense silence. “The brothers of the Night’s Watch will be able to inform us what we require to know.”

Not a bad idea, Margaery had to admit. Undeniably a more neutral solution, if sending word to Tyrion Lannister would really be seen as such an affront as both of them suggested.

“Lady Sansa if I might,” Lord Baelish spoke up. “I don’t see the King in the North would have instructed any of them about his intentions if he did not worry about notifying us.”

Notifying her, Margaery almost wanted to correct. It did not sit well with her that he talked as if Winterfell, Sansa, and the North were his personal concern.

“We will see about that. Should it turn out unsuccessful, we can take up your proposition then,” she declared. “I take it I can count on you to send the message within the hour?”

His lips had turned into a thin line, but he nodded anyhow. “Certainly, milady.”

It was not much of a surprise for her that it peeved him when Sansa made a judgment that grew not from his recommendations. Margaery, on the other hand, smiled, content enough that she had not accepted his advice, and had not walked into whatever trap or plot he was brewing. When he strode off, discontent seemed to drip from his every pore, and this provoked the smile on Margaery’s face to widen just the slightest bit.

“It is good for you to stand up to him,” Margaery told Sansa when they were alone again. “He is overly confident about the influence he maintains over you.”

“He has a lot of expertise in political matters,” Sansa returned warily, like she did not like it, but had accepted it as a necessary evil. “I’m yet lacking the experience, I have to rely on his advice. It’s not like I have too many choices for advisors.”

Was that how she saw herself? That she was depended on him? Margaery shook her head as she walked around to her former spot across from Sansa and sat back down.

 “Don’t sell yourself short,” she demanded. “Littlefinger does not struggle to stay on your good side or seek to manipulate you because you’re defenceless.”

Sansa regarded the words, but ended up shaking her head. “My position in Winterfell is not the reason he tries to remain on my good side.”

That wretched blend of jealousy and disgust boiled up inside her again. Lord Baelish had an interest in more than just influence in the North, that was without question, but he was a power hungry man more than an emotional one. He’d murder for even a shred of the illusion of power any day, before he engaged in a crime of passion.

“Maybe not purely,” she affirmed with reluctance. “But he is a lot more mindful of his dependence on you, than you are.”

“He does not depend on me,” she objected. “I require the army of the Vale. Which is under his command.”

“The army that rode North for you,” Margaery emphasized. “For the niece of Lady Arryn. For the cousin of their Lord. Not for Lord Baelish.”

Sansa regarded the words, but again would not let herself fully accept them. Perhaps this was an effect of being reliant on other people for so long that now she held authority she could not believe it.

“Thanks for weighing in on all of this,” Sansa spoke instead. “It’s good to have a diverse opinion other than just his, for once.”

“I ought to be more wary to differ with him,” Margaery mused out loud. “He does not tread lightly on people who are in his way.” Her eyes studied Sansa’s face. “And something tells me that goes specifically in terms of his influence on you.”

“He does not have any influence on me,” Sansa returned exasperatedly. “While I appreciate his advice, I do not trust him. And I realize very well to be mindful when it comes to Littlefinger’s recommendations or ideas.”

“Sweet girl,” Margaery said in a fostering fashion, that she hoped was not too patronising. “Assuming you are not being deceived by someone, is that person’s greatest trick.”

“I do not trust him,” Sansa repeated almost stubbornly, as if that was all that was necessary to not be tricked by that wicked man.

“Great,” she acknowledged with a nod. “But I assume no one with half a brain ever trusted him, and he still ended up being the undoing of many people he crossed.”

That ran for her as well. She was not accepting any of his words at face value, but he yet could become extremely dangerous to her. And after today it was purely a matter of time until he’d show up at her doorstep again. He would tolerate no one to undermine his influence on Sansa, and while that was indeed Margaery’s aim, she could not allow him to see that it was.

“I just don’t get it,” Sansa breathed, leaning forward and drumming her fingers against the top of the desk in an inpatient gesture. “Why would Jon go beyond with just a small group instead of the army he has suggested we would require to deal with the dead? And why did he not make at least a brief halt in Winterfell before going on whatever dangerous and insane mission this is?  Has he no notion how thin ice his reign is based on? They were not overly cordial in the terms they had for him lately, and Jon going this far north only to move directly to the East Watch will not have a positive reaction.”

The tone Sansa spoke with indicated that it upset her. And hurt. And worried. Her own inability to see Sansa like that tore Margaery’s thoughts away from her own troubles about Lord Baelish to focus on this matter instead.

“Why do you think your brother did not alert you of his intentions?”

Sansa sighed. “Only the Gods know. My best guess is that he acted carelessly and I, or the north were not even on his mind.”

Foolish of him, Margaery thought. Did Jon Snow not have any perception of what kind of danger he moved his sister in by leaving her here with Lord Baelish of all people? What danger that presented to him and his stand?

“Concentrate on what you know,” Margaery advised. “You trust your brother don’t you?”

Sansa nodded. “Of course I do.”

“Then trust he has only your best interest in mind. The rest will come together once you receive a response from East Watch.”

Sansa nodded, but was smart enough to recognize she did not have a huge variation of other choices as of right now.

They returned to silence then, only the comfort of it had passed. Instead it was achingly evident to Margaery that they were both just mulling over thoughts and concerns in their own minds.

Lord Baelish and what had transpired would not leave her, and it made her anxious. Like she needed to do something about it now. That it was on her to go onto the next step in this certain matter. And soon. Before he could foment anything against her, set anything into motion.

There was more than just her restlessness and her increasing boredom that had her so elated with Sansa’s invitation to have her escort her throughout the day. While change was what she yearned for, more than those four walls surrounding her day in day out and only books to read and handicraft to do. A considerable element had also been higher flexibility. If she did not prefer to wait for Lord Baelish to approach her, she’d have to know where to find him. And be able to seek him out without allowing her absences to seem dubious to Sansa.

The rolled up and finished scroll to Lady Mormont suggested the ideal opportunity for that. Sansa looked at her perplexed, at Margaery’s offer to take it to the Maester, but took the explanation that she wished to prove her knowledge of the outlay of Winterfell and establish presence as her handmaiden.

It astonished her quite how easily she had found her way around the hallways of Winterfell. The walls in daylight seemed to form a little more sense than they did at night-time. Not wholly the labyrinth she had originally perceived it as. On her course she only came across a couple of servants that took mere brief, albeit peculiar, notice of her, which she retaliated with a disarming, friendly smile and greeting.  

Once she arrived at the Lord Baelish’s door, her hand only faltered a moment before she knocked. When he opened she could tell instantly that she had startled him, no matter how perfect he covered it and had his face under restraint. His eyes gave him away, there was a particular thing gleaming in them. Without a word, he stepped aside and allowed her to enter. As Margaery stepped further into the chamber she instantly noticed the neatness. The almost pedantic way nothing looked out of place, not a lone personal item detectable in the room; it fitted him, she felt. Always the petty little official.

“I wished to talk to you in private,” she opened after her brief view around. “If I could have a moment of your time.”

Again, he held his face indifferently, solely the hint of a smile dancing on his lips. “Please have a seat,” he offered and pulled a chair from the small table out for her.

With a taut smile she sat down and expected him to follow her manner, but he remained standing, a not too dumb choice, she noted. Now he was literally towering over her.

“I wanted to make sure my words before did not agitate you.”

“They haven’t,” he assured. “But it is truly kind of you to consider that.”

Margaery gave another tight-lipped smile. “I’m glad. I never aimed to insult your intelligence or your diplomatic capability.”

He bowed with a patronising smirk. “I have been struck with worse insulations in my time,” he quipped.

It was just that smirk she detested most. That expression on his face, like he was so superior to everyone, knew considerably more. What annoyed her was that right now he might have not been mistaken. She did not have a strategy; she did not know what she could draw from him. He, on the other hand, seemed to have a clear idea on both ends.

“I’m glad,” she returned. “After all, we are both just watching out for Sansa.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“While I’m glad we clarified this, it is not what I’m here for,” she resolved, and that gained her an expectant look to which she followed up. “It is of the record you presented me the other day that I needed to talk about.”

“What of it?”

With a friendly smile, Margaery tilted her head to the side and looked at him in a way that indicated that he might be the one standing, but she was still above him, better than him.

“You and I are not entirely different, Lord Baelish,” she opened in a calm and self-evident tone that would have made her grandmother proud. “Your foremost devotion is, and has always been, to yourself.” She paused deliberately. “I’m not suggesting that is a bad quality. In our world, everybody has to watch out for themselves. Choose the ally that forwards them the most. And you certainly have come a long way.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

He did not look particularly threatened, more curious in a polite way.

“You did not show me that record because you felt it is my right,” she said. “And you did not come to see me twice now, because you carry any regard for my general well-being.”

“I didn’t?” The way he seemed so gratified, aggravated her more than she should have allowed herself.

She shook her head casually. “No, you didn’t.” Her eyes suggested distinct interest. “And I resolve that I want to hear what you have to offer me.”

They stared at each other in a heavy silence. She studied him long and held his eyes without blinking, taunting him to be the one to advert his gaze first. Only a knock on the door that Margaery inwardly shrieked at disturbed the brief moment where she had his uninterrupted attention. She had sufficient pose to not let that be evident on her face, but it made her realise how truly strung to the breaking point her spirits were in this moment.

“Just a moment,” Lord Baelish apologised and took his attention to the door.

His body concealed who he was speaking to. In order to see she would have needed to stand up, that even though she was dying with curiosity to find out what could hold more interest for him than her seeking him out with a few more cards on the table. The few words spoken she could also not make out, and so she remained at the table with growing impatience.

When he turned around, he had an attentive smile on his face and fnally sat down across from her. A gesture she could not perceive whether to be grateful for or uneased by.

“Quite honestly I am not sure I have anything to offer you. I may be Lord Protector of the Vale, but those troops are by no means strong enough to take it up with the Lannister’s army,” he picked up their conversation, and for that moment she felt nearly disappointed, that he had not taken the bait, that he still did not show his true ambitions, but really that probably would have been too easy.  

“A shame,” she declared.

“It’s curious, though,” he continued in a tone that managed to pick up her interest. “For a while now I have found myself unable to forget your words. What you said when I showed you the report. You said you were in no position to do anything about it?”

Margaery blinked, on the one hand glad that she seemed to have struck a nerve, on the other anxious for what was about to come next.

“If you’re seeing something I’m not, please share,” she declared.

He smirked and poured himself a cup of wine, at his inquiring face she merely nodded and let him fill a second one for her.

“You are right, we are not all that different,” he granted and leaned back in his chair, nursing the cup between his hands thoughtfully, looking at the red liquid in it instead of her. “Even though our upbringing couldn’t have been more different.” His eyes shot up and then and looked at her with a certain amount of delight. “You were born into a rank of privilege, of opportunity; I came from little and had to work my way to where I am now.” He completed the thought with a small sip from his cup. “And from that I can tell you, just because you do not have a great name, or troops to claim you own, does not mean that you are powerless. By no means.”

She was aware of how he worked his way to where he was now and she doubted he still knew how many innocents he had stepped over on his rise to where he was. How many people had to suffer or even die for his ambition.

“Would you care to elaborate that?”

“You are dear friends with one of the most powerful women in the realm.”

She should not have been astonished that this came back to Sansa.

 “While undoubtedly she’d show compassion for me, I can’t truly determine why you figure this would interest Sansa very much.”

“Are you certain of that? Have you asked?” He angled his head to the side. “You must not ignore that Sansa was once in your position too. Craving nothing more than to return to a home that was not there anymore, with nothing to her name, no army, just a couple of valuable friends. And look at where she is now.”

When she should have known better, when she was confident she was smarter than that, she could not help but wonder if maybe he was right. Could Sansa be convinced if she’d explained her the circumstances?

“Those were different times however,” Margaery sought to rationalise. Ignoring that what he said did not sound illogical, ignoring that glimpse of hope it stirred within her, because she was smarter than that and she knew that explaining to Sansa these circumstances would not be enough. “When it was not yet winter, and without the threat of a war from beyond the wall.”

The face he made implied that he did not think much of these assertions. “As you stated, that threat is beyond the wall. And the wall has stood for a thousand years.”

That Lord Baelish did not consider the threat from the army of the dead was not inept, let all else appear more logical, established his goals just the tiniest fragment clearer.

“While I tend to agree with you, the King in the North sees it distinctly differently.”

Margaery wanted to believe Sansa, was certain that she believed what her brother had told her about the supposed threat from behind the wall, but for the life of her, she could not see this being as a greater threat than what she could see with her own eyes. It sounded too much like an old wives’ tale, nothing she could sincerely believe or be worried about.

“But he’s not here,” he sounded with a shrug, like Jon Snow was incidental altogether. “I’m a rational man. I understand the threat where it undoubtedly is, and right now we have to concentrate on the factors at hand.”

With these words, he placed a small scroll onto the table between them. Margaery only wavered for the duration of a heartbeat before she reached for it and unrolled the piece of paper. She recognised the precise writing immediately.

“Did Sansa really write this?” she asked once she had gathered the contents. The words did not sound like they could ever come from Sansa.

“Solely the ink on the sheet,” he replied with a shrug and rolled the scroll up immediately after she had put it down. “The words are Cersei’s.” He looked at her earnestly and held the treacherous piece of paper up pointedly. “This bears a significantly grander capability of being a hazard than all that might or might not lie beyond the wall.”

He was right, she realised, and that was why she did not like it one bit that it was in his pocket instead of the bottom of the fireplace.

“Agreed,” Margaery acknowledged. “Only I fail to see how threats on every corner are more prone to make Sansa support my claim for Highgarden.”

He smirked. “I’d expected some more comprehension for the bigger coherences of things from Olenna Tyrell’s granddaughter.”

To not glare at him, she drank from the cup of wine. She was seething on the inside though, but did not want to give him the satisfaction to see that.

“I admit I might be a bit rusty,” she acknowledged.

“Sansa is nothing if not a deeply loyal person. You were good and kind to her in King’s Landing. I’d imagine she has not forgotten that.”

Where was he going with this? Yes, Sansa was a loyal person, with a great sense for justness, but even if she took the King in the North and the supposed war against the dead out of the equation – which was already a big stretch – she could not see Sansa marching troops South to fight other people’s battles. Even on the extremely far fetch that that she would, what would be in it for Lord Baelish?

“Loyal enough to start a war that is not her own?”

“Wouldn’t it be though?” he questioned. “After everything she has endured under Cersei, how could a war against the Lannisters not be personal to her?”

This was about more than just having her in his debt, Margaery understood then. He wanted a war against Cersei; for what reason she could only speculate, but she understood now what role he deemed for her. He required her to be the moving force for Sansa to do that step. Thus whatever he planned next would fall into place after that.

He offered her his support in gaining her home back at the expense of Sansa.

With that realisation reaching her, she threw him a brusque look and got to her feet.

“As always, you handed me a lot to think about,” she remarked, as she tugged her shawl tightly around herself.

“I hope we can continue this conversations another time,” he noted and rose as well, offering her a bow as he opened the door for her. “Milady.”

She made it only a couple of steps around the next corner before she slumped back against the wall and took a deep breath. This exchange had burdened her a load more than she wished to admit.

Even though she detested herself for it, she had to admit that what he suggested was logical, sounded like it could work. All separate factors and circumstances aside, going purely by figures, the army of the North and the Vale united, carried maybe just enough force to take it up with Cersei’s.

As quickly as the thought was there, she shoved it aside as far as humanly achievable. Because it was so ludicrous, so truly mad. She was not a fool, and more so not a traitor, and that would be what any conspiring with Littlefinger would turn her into.

She could never use Sansa like that. No matter how hard the loss of her family home and her people weighed on her. Convincing Sansa to go against her own brother to get her to support her own claim was not an option. Could never be. She cared too intensely for her to do that. Was too genuinely happy for her to have her home and her family back after all she’d been through.

Her yearning for Highgarden was still profoundly there, but she’d recovered another approach to get there. Endurance was not her greatest virtue, but that was something she was becoming better at. There would be the time when she would arrive home again and reign over Highgarden like it was her right by birth. Be once at the centre of everyone’s attention as their cherished ruler. But she would manage so with a clear conscience.

With that thought in mind she felt a little stronger and determinedly pushed herself off the wall. The letter for Lady Mormont was still in the pocket of her frock and she’d have to conclude that initial mission before returning to Sansa, since she was a lot longer gone than she was expected to already.

Whether it was her own expertise to pretend or Sansa’s trusting Margaery did not know, but Sansa accepted her excuse of having lost her course around Winterfell with an adoring smile.

It was just that smile that told Margaery she was doing the decent thing.

It was already pitch dark when they both trudged through muddy ways of the courtyard to the building that had served as the shelter for the horses. They had stuck with the habit of their night-time walk, without ever debating it, even though the reason for it was obsolete. Margaery got an appropriate measure of movement and fresh air during their day, still she would not have given up their nightly walks for anything in the world. Maybe because then, it was just them. Maybe because it was their routine. Maybe because the conversation floated more freely when it was just the two of them. Sansa did not even propose discontinuing this custom, and Margaery was glad for that.

When Sansa pushed the massive gates open, the familiar smell of horses and straw filled her nose and the notion crossed her mind that it smelled precisely like the stables in Highgarden had. For a fragile moment she was a girl again. The happiest girl in all the Reach, coming back from a lengthy ride out, drained and aching in the best sense. The memory was enough to produce a veil of tear in her eyes for a short moment.

About two dozen wooden boxes divided the horses from another and Margaery wandered along them, smiling at the graceful animals she could make out in the faint light that fell in from the entrance. When reached a particular tall, gracious white mare, it stuck her head out to her. She reached into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out the cut up chunks of a carrot she had collected from the meal table and bought her gloved palm out for the animal. Even through the thick leather she could feel the wet tongue of the animal licking up every last trace. Her free hand brushed over the mane.

Her head wound to locate Sansa. “Show me which one is yours?”

“You found her already,” Sansa responded with a smile and turned to stop on the other side of the head.

Margaery smiled and took another look at the mare. “A beautiful creature,” she asserted. “Kind eyes.” She stole a glimpse in Sansa’s way. “Very fitting for you.”

“Brienne bought her off a farmer when we started for the journey to Castle Black.”

“I bet she’s extremely fast.”

“That’s what Jon said when he first saw her,” Sansa smiled at the memory. “He worried she might be too much for me. If it was up to him I assume he’d placed me on a pony.”

“Well, you are his little sister,” Margaery pointed out and her thoughts travelled to Loras before she could help it. Gods, how much she missed him. His smile. His stubbornness. How protected she felt in his presence. She didn’t know where all this melancholy came from.

“She’s rather peaceful,” Sansa explained and her hand too reached out to pat the horse’s throat.

Only on the surface, Margaery thought.

Even in the hazy light, she could see the strong muscular structure on the mare. Not unlike Sansa. Her eyes settled on Sansa, a gentle smile danced on her lips and care for the animal was evident in her eyes. Margaery was sure that this gentle affection on her face was her favourite expression on Sansa. The Lady Stark of Winterfell might have been attractive, kept pose and represented strength, but she certainly never looked more magnificent than in those short moments where the mask dropped off her face, and she was just herself, a vulnerable young woman who was still so exceptionally stronger than anybody could suspect.

This time when Sansa peered up and captured her eyes, Margaery was caught off guard. She did not achieve the diversion with a smile, or with clever speeches, as she ordinarily did, solely took her gaze quietly and her heart skipped a few beats. While there had been melancholy and pondering filling her head a moment ago, for this moment her thoughts came to a halt. Instead her mind was blank, entirely occupied with the bliss she felt whenever Sansa was close.

On its own accord she shifted from one foot to the other, and as she moved, a sense of irritation shoved its path into Margaery’s conscious almost viciously, abruptly she found it harder and harder to fixate on something. Not metaphorically, but very literally. She blinked multiple times, anticipating that it was just her eyes misting with the complicated judgments that passed through her mind, but only found herself in nearly pitch dark surroundings. Even though they were hardly two feet apart, Margaery could scarcely make out Sansa’s face.

The harsh noise of wood moving against wood caused Margaery’s breath to stuck in her throat and the hand that still lay on the mare’s head, suddenly seemed like a lifeline, like the sole thing she had to ground herself.

A familiar grasp of dismay filled Margaery’s rib cage. She realised what that sound had been and what it meant, and nausea worked its way up from her gut.

Alone, the echo of a heavy breath escaping Sansa and the gentle “Oh no”, served a proof that she was still across from her.

“That was the bolt,” Margaery asked, her voice coming out rushed and sharp. “Wasn’t it?”

The bolt that locked the door from the outside.

All her senses were enhanced, and she felt a shift in the air and heard steps receding, which made it apparent to her that Sansa had twisted around and strode off towards the entrance.

“Wait!” she cried out and her hand reached out to locate Sansa, but clutched at nothing and this had her heart that had slowed severely before, pounding like crazy in her chest.

She was alone in the dark. She tried her best to preserve her calm, convincing herself that she should not be worried. This wasn’t her being trapped in the ruins of the Sept.  While her head recognized that she was safe here, that there was no immediate menace, but her body wouldn’t follow. She dropped the hand that had been reaching after Sansa and hampered it up to a tight fist in the frantic struggle to bring the shaking under control. When she had gathered her nerves just the tiniest bit, she called out again.

“Sansa?”

Sansa was by her side only a moment thereafter, but it felt like an eternity.

“The gate is bolted shut,” she acknowledged with a sigh. “The night patrols must have sealed it on their round.”

Margaery tried to take a deep breath, sought to focus, but the panic did not prevail for even a second as she inhaled shakily. “Please don’t say we are stuck here,” she pleaded.

It’s just darkness, she told herself again and again. Nothing to be frightened off. She knew where she was and that she was safe. Still, rationalizing didn’t work. The images and the all-consuming fear that appeared with the darkness overwhelmed her like they were crushing together over her. It brought back the agony, caused the scars that marked her body to burn, she felt dizzy and had to take a step backward and lean against the closest wall, because it seemed like her limbs would not uphold her a moment longer.

“The night guard will come back here on his next round and let us out,” Sansa assured softly, her voice sounding closer, like she had taken a step towards her. “We won’t be here for long.”

The ache that had formed in her breast gradually, now felt like it would end her right there and then. It could not be very long that they were standing in this darkness, but she had already lost any concept of how much time passed. All she felt she knew was that she would perish, if she would have to stay here in this darkness merely for a minute longer. There was no way she would make it through the couple of hours it would take the night guard to complete his round and come back here.

She gave her very best to pull herself from this state. Tried to think of other things. Happier things. Childhood memories. Hot summer nights in Highgarden. Her brother’s laugh. Her grandmother's softly berating eyes. The warm embrace of her father. Yet nothing stayed in her mind, nothing remained with her and the darkness always came back like a beast that had her in his claws.

There were a million things she craved to scream, yell and cry out for, but her voice seemed wedged in her throat and all she could produce were strangled sobs that resembled a hiccup, while a shaking took over her whole frame like she was standing naked in the freezing cold. One of her hands pushed against her heart, as if it could tame the fast beating even just a little, tame the heavy and rapid breaths that surged in and out of her lungs.

Only marginally she felt gentle fingers that smelled like horse brush a couple of disarrayed strands of hair back into place, and then firmly hold her face.  Soothing words and pleads to calm down reached her ears, made it better for about two heartbeats, then the panic returned, and to that a sense of deep shame for not having any control over her own behaviour.

She could hear Sansa’s voice, calm and soothing, but could not focus enough to gather what she was saying. It was like her words reached her through an impenetrable veil, through which she only managed to hear muffled sounds. Still Sansa continued talking, almost stubbornly, as if she anticipated that if she just did so long enough, Margaery would have to settle down eventually, but even after a small eternity of Sansa’s best efforts, Margaery was still shaking uncontrollably.

It were solely her hands that she could still make out. The palms cupping her face were warm and offered comfort, just like the fingers skimming over her cheek bones and her hair, offered more comfort than any consoling words could ever manage. She might not have been able to see Sansa, but feeling her touch, suggested that she was still there, that she would not leave her alone. When Sansa’s hands moved from her face and reached to interlace them with her own, Margaery’s grip was as tight as if she was drowning and Sansa was the one thing that could still rescue her.  

Those same hands gave a soft tuck then, guided her, and Margaery could accomplish nothing but follow on wobbly feet, held on because there was nothing else she could do, but hold on. They walked several steps in the dark until she found herself nudged her against the solid cold surface of a wall behind her.

Fresh and if possible even worse anxiety filled Margaery when Sansa’s hands detangled themselves from her own; a cheek pressed against her own and by the feel of Sansa’s breath against her ear Margaery knew that she spoke something to her, but once again there was only the rush of her own heartbeat for her to hear. And then Sansa’s warmth was gone, and with it all of Margaery’s remaining strength vanished.

Her legs caved under her own weight and she sank along the wall onto the floor, where she curled into herself like a maimed animal. With her eyes closed, she dropped her head against her drawn-up knees and could only manage to feel desperation one more time around and had to focus on her own breathing, because she was sure she would suffocate otherwise.

When the warmth of Sansa emerged next to her again, and a gentle hold on her chin lifted her head, it took her a moment to come back from the panic. Unexpectedly, it felt easier to breathe again, and it was that feeling that allowed her to understand something was different. The fear had paralyzed her mind, and it only extremely slowly sprung back to life, and realised what had changed. That something had changed. Why she could see those deep blue eyes looking at her with concern.

Through a narrow field, more a slit than a window, at least a solid five feet above them the smallest amount of moon light that that this cloudy night offered flooded in and split the dark that had enraptured them.

The relief appeared not quite as rapid as the fear. It was like a slow awakening from a nightmare. Margaery could not make out how long she continued sitting on the cold floor, and how long it took until her heart beat finally slowed down and the trembling stopped.

She wanted to say something, but found that she could not string together words if her life depended on it. She felt drained and exhaustion was palpable in every single part of her body, but so very insanely relieved.

With that sense of relief, something else returned. The awareness of Sansa; Sansa who knelt next to her, who’s hand that lay in her own and the way her thumb drew soothing patterns on the back of her hand. The way Sansa was so close to her, she could feel the warmth radiating from her, could see feel her breath on her skin. Sansa’s features -being able to see Sansa’s face- she could not tear her eyes away. Only look up into those beautiful eyes, like they were her own personal revelation.

An unknown sense of gratitude filed her chest where all overwhelming panic had been a couple of moments ago. She had never been as grateful to have anybody in her life. Had not felt as saved by anyone; had not known that that someone’s mere presence could make such a difference.

If she had been in complete command of her strength and her wit, she maybe would have been able to resist. But she was exhausted and tired, and the part of mind that produced all the appropriate choices was not strong enough anymore after what had just happened.

Quite honestly, Margaery thirsted for doing something that would make her feel alive again, something to make her feel good, that would let her forget all about what she had been through. That would diminish the feeling that even months after her body had healed, what had happened could still make her feel like she was dying because of it. She yearned for the kind of comfort and tenderness. She yearned after doing something purely because it would make her feel good.

She hardly had to lean forward more than a couple of inches to meet Sansa’s lips.

It was not a proper kiss. Nothing like she had imagined a first kiss with Sansa would be like. There was no great passion or all-consuming longing; merely comfort and content as lips swept against each other and lingered for a moment. It was perhaps the most innocent kiss that Margaery had ever experienced, yet at the same time, it was more miraculous than anything she could remember.

She pulled back with the purpose of giving Sansa a chance to protest or push her away. Neither happened though. When they both blinked their eyes open and she was met with a pair of bright blue ones, looking at her with a sense of clarity, a soft blush that covered her cheeks. She could feel Sansa’s slightly quickened breath on her face, the way her fingers tightened around her own, feel the way her chest rose and fell with every breath. And then it was for Sansa to close the distance, and soft lips were back moving in union.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for reading. I very much hope that you enjoyed this chapter.  
> Very eager to hear what you think, of course in specific about the development at the end. :)  
> Happy Holidays to all of you!


	12. Chapter Twelve

There were moments in Sansa‘s life where she recognized nothing would ever be the same again. Quite a few at that, and most of them not perfectly pleasant- the contrary actually. Events she sensed she could never come back from, where she was certain she would not be the same after; times that made her lose a part of herself that she could not regain.

Margaery leaning in to kiss her was one of these moments. Only for the first time she went on not mourning what she left behind, instead she was sure she did not want to return from it. Did not want to give up the shift of feelings and desires it carried along, was sure she would perish if that were taken from her.

There was a whole range of moods, thoughts, and concerns surging through her head from the moment Margaery’s lips had brushed hers. It felt exciting, unnerving, and yet incredible, more magnificent than all she had encountered in her minimal series of occasions like this.

Sansa had kissed three people in her life. And each one of them she yearned to eliminate from her mind more than the other, detested the memory of each of those moments. She was convinced that they all had tarnished and shattered her in their own sense.

With Joffrey she would never be able to forgive herself for granting him the valuable moment of her first kiss. Just like she could not avoid castigating herself for falling for him in the first place. She despised the foolish young girl who had made this mistake and all it had wrecked along the way.

The memory of Littlefinger kissing her was not all that different. It managed to make her feel so idiotic and meek; it caused her skin to crawl. Not solely because of what had transpired afterwards, but more that she had ever been short-sighted enough to trust him so much.

Ramsay was the worst in all. The few occasions he had inflicted a soft, wet kiss on her lips had almost -just almost though- been worse than everything else she suffered under him. He had taken a lot from her, and for most of it she had somehow endured it. Lain there and conceived herself to a different place, but his face close to her, his lips on her own, that had revolted her more so than anything else before and after in her life.

After him, she had thought she was beyond redemption, could never again meet someone’s kiss, no matter how delicate and loving, without her mind coming back to him- to that sense of disgust and helplessness.

Still, when Margaery kissed her, he was the furthest thing on her mind. Not just him, but everything that might have evoked troublesome memories. It did not matter in that moment. All that mattered was them; what was arising between them, how it felt, what it meant, what would come next.

It was like the thirteen-year-old girl was back, only in the absolutely best way. She might have surrendered some of her along the way, but in this moment she realised that that hopeful innocence was still very much there. Merely buried under all the dark and dreadful things she’d encountered. She was not dead, had not vanished the day her father had died, no, this part of her yet existed.

The taste of Margaery’s lips had opened a door, and a sphere of possibilities, dreams and desires suddenly engulfed her mind. The prospect it returned to her was overwhelmingly wonderful.

Their first kiss was brief, and over all too quick. After that followed a fragile moment that held a grand sense of understanding.

Margaery drew back and looked at her, and while Sansa had become rather good at translating her features; had grown to grasp the full variety of her facial expressions. From amusement, over frustration and consideration, to sorrow; in that moment her face showed none of that. This was something entirely new.

Margaery always appeared so confident in everything she did, implied to have not much room for uncertainty or second guessing, so Sansa had never met this amount of nervousness, of insecurity in her eyes. Like she was frightened of having made a mistake. Or worried about Sansa’s reaction. Like she believed having done something that Sansa did not want. That she might not want her. It seemed like she was seconds away from retracting, like an apology was then on the tip of her tongue.

Had the moment not been as substantial as it was, Sansa would have laughed. Because how was it feasible that Margaery could not tell how much she adored her? What she sparked inside her? While Sansa assumed that each and every one of her thoughts had to be evident for Margaery to read off her face, how could she possibly be nervous that Sansa might not reciprocate her feelings?

She would have presumed them both as sharp and wistful young women, but perhaps they were the biggest idiots in all of Winterfell, maybe even Westeros.

Sansa would have loved nothing further than to declare all of that to Margaery, but this was unexplored terrain for her. She had an excellent and widespread education in how to behave in many situations. What was appropriate and demanded of a Lady. Unfortunately, expressing still baffling and unfamiliar perceptions to someone was not in that repertoire.

There was a lot that she desired to tell Margaery, ask her, have her affirm or deny. So many points she sensed she needed to clarify. But all of that seemed too much, not relevant, not what she craved.

Sansa wanted only two things right then; to let Margaery realize that there was no reason for doubt, and to recreate that pleasant tug in her stomach. And there was a relatively straightforward way to obtain both.

For their second kiss, she was the one to lean in. She did not consider where she picked up that kind of confidence and courage from, but was never more content with a brisk decision in her life.

With reconnecting their lips, all other contemplating disappeared.

The sequence of kisses that followed remained chaste. Margaery did not push to deepen the kiss beyond soft featherlike brushes and Sansa did not fully perceive how to undertake that. She also was positive her heart would erupt out of her chest if this moment between them became even the slightest bit more intense.

She was kneeling and yet felt that her knees were shaky; one hand supported her against the wall, the other was entwined with Margaery’s and that was the lone factor that kept them from trembling.

Margaery’s lips were smooth and still firm, emitted a heat she felt spreading onto her own face -or was it the other way around?- and while Sansa had initiated this kiss, it was still Margaery who took the lead. Who was just terrific at that, in every sense. Her movements never impatient, overly quick or pushing. Even the way she concluded it, while it was way too soon for Sansa’s liking, felt perfect. She pressed a string of briefer growing pecks to her lips. First the centre or her lips, than the edge, finishing on her cheek before she drew away.

Not fully braced for that loss of contact, Sansa’s head fell forward and leaned against Margaery’s. She had read about that. Read about lovers ending a kiss like that in romantic tales, but had not understood until now. That desire to not let the other go too far away, of maintaining their closeness even after a considerable more intimate moment. The feel of skin on skin, the comfort, the warmth, the ability to feel the others breathing, to match the rhythm of your own breaths to theirs.

“I’m sorry.”

Margaery’s words were quiet and contained enough regretful element to let Sansa’s heart drop.

“For what?” Sansa forced out and stiffened the grip on Margaery’s hand, her eyes probing for a trace of what Margaery meant in the dim light. She was sure she’d die if Margaery wished to distance herself from these last couple of moments; if Margaery truly regretted them.

“That you had to see me like that.”

Relief filled Sansa, and she achieved a small smile. In this new formed proximity she had almost forgotten what happened in the moments before they had kissed. Margaery’s sudden fear and her helplessness. How she had been so terribly inconsolable, had clung to her. It was the first occasion where she had experienced Margaery quite so upset. So different from her regular composed self. Above all though, she recalled this need to care for her. To make certain she was doing all right.

“I don’t mind,” Sansa returned gently. “Sometimes it’s comforting to learn even the strongest have their demons.”

“Frightened of the dark, like a small child. I hate that you had to see me like that,” Margaery more whispered than spoke.

Sansa understood what Margaery meant, had had those moments in her life as well, where she was convinced revealing her own vulnerability was worse than the feeling itself, only she hated the idea that Margaery felt even remotely like that.

“Are you feeling better at least?” she asked with compassionate eyes.

Only briefly Margaery broke their eye contact and stared down towards where their hands remained still joined on top of Margaery’s drawn-up knees, then her eyes ever so gradually came back to Sansa’s and she smiled her crooked smile and batted her lashes.

“You could say that.”

Sansa felt a blush rising just suddenly and had to avert her face to not fall into a nervous giggle. It was curious how something so familiar, a smile, eyes, expressions abruptly felt like too much, prompted too much, and yet so very wonderful.

“You worried me,” Sansa acknowledged.

Margaery drew away and, resting her head against the wall behind her, directed her gaze forward, away from Sansa who still knelt to her right. It should have unnerved her, the loss of closeness, but she understood. Some things were simpler answered not looking at anyone.

“I’m sorry,” Margaery echoed. “I could dissolve from embarrassment.”

Sansa shook her head in berating. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“That’s arguable I’d say.” Margaery lifted her head to the narrow open window above them. “How did you open the shutter?”

“I stepped on a trough and shoved it open with a pitchfork.”

“Very resourceful,” Margaery recognised and shot her an endearing smile.

More like extremely thoughtless, Sansa thought. At the time she had been so charged, she had not allowed it a great deal of contemplation, but the trough had been all but solid, and stabilizing a heavy pitchfork while balancing on the tip of her toes in the darkness, she could have not only injured herself but also Margaery.

“Anything for a damsel in distress.” The words left Sansa’s mouth and when in her mind they had seemed canny and clever, hearing them spoken out loud she nearly cringed. Did she honestly just say that? Maybe she would be the one to dissolve from embarrassment first. But Margaery chuckled quietly, and after how deeply distraught she had seen her tonight, that was just about the nicest sound Sansa could imagine.

“I don’t expect it will be long before the night patrol comes back.” Sansa moved, so she sat next to Margaery, her back leaning against the cool wall, in contradiction to the warmth she sensed coming from Margaery’s body by her side.

“It’s already a lot better,” Margaery admitted and Sansa felt that she was not alone speaking about the bit of light that poured in.

With a sigh, Margaery shifted and leaned her head on Sansa’s shoulder. Even though she enjoyed it, Sansa still stiffened briefly, felt confused in what to make with this after what had just occurred between them. Margaery seemed to be better briefed in that and happy to close those rifts in Sansa’s knowledge. She lifted their linked hands into their field of sight and commenced to play with Sansa’s fingers between her own.

All Sansa could still think was how much better this would feel if they would not be wearing gloves.

Even though it already was perfect. The course their hands peacefully explored the other, grazed and caressed, until they tangled again finally, only to start the same game anew then.

“I feel exhausted,” Margaery admitted.

“Fear can have that effect on you,” Sansa recognised with sympathy. “You could sleep. I’ll wake you once the night patrol turns up.”

The small movement on her left suggested that Margaery shook her head. “No. I don’t expect I’ll be able to.”

There was a certain tone to her words. One that nearly sounded like fear.

“Do you still have nightmares?”

“Sometimes. Not as regular as before, and thankfully not as lifelike. But after what just happened I don’t want to take my chances.”

Sansa knew what that felt like. Had experienced nights were a rich and all enwrapping exhaustion seemed like the better choice compared to retiring to sleep and risking awful dream.

“I still have them too,” Sansa told her, wanted to let her know that it would gradually get better. “I’m somewhat used to them by now. They have lost some of their power.”

“What do you dream about?”

Sansa inhaled. “A variation of things,” she responded vaguely.

Anyone else would have inquired further. Would have asked what she meant by that, sought for more information. It heartened Sansa that Margaery didn’t. Just because she was who she was. Because she perceived Sansa, identified her limits easily and never once crossed them. It was just that quality that had formed her trust in Margaery further than in anybody else. That she didn’t play with her or seek to exploit her. She could be around her and not reveal a lone word, not share a single personal detail and ultimately still feel so close, still feel like Margaery knew her inside out. Not once did she weigh what they learned about each other or what they had shared.

She had just seen Margaery at her lowest, at her most vulnerable, and it did not matter, she did not think of her any different. If anything Sansa admired her even more. For her strength, for her will not give up. That stirred something in Sansa. The little craving inside her that had been there for a while now, to share more as well. To let Margaery in on what overwhelmed her, what still had the capability to torment her. For Margaery to know her. Know everything about her. The good and the bad; and the awful.

She would tell her one day, Sansa determined then, and observed almost curiously that it did not scare her anymore. She was not worried, knew not to worry, that Margaery might treat her any differently. But she had always known that. For the time being, she had not told Margaery because she had figured as long as she did not know, it had been simple to pretend that none of these things had happened to her, and that had been comfortable.

But maybe that was never as significant as she had thought.

It was just like the nightmares. Maybe they would never cease, and that was also not what it was about. It was about eliminating their power. Speaking about something that terrified her, and understanding that the world would not crash and burn around her. That was what she needed.

Yes, she would tell Margaery what still caused her nightmares. What caused her to sit up rigid in the middle of the night, with a racing heart, tears in her eyes and the desire to scream at the top of her lungs. One day. But not tonight. He did not get to taint tonight and the wonderfulness it had carried along.

“You know what helps me when I’ve woken from a nightmare?” Sansa did not wait for an answer. “I play that game of pretend you taught me. I think about what I would do if I could.”

She could _hear_ Margaery smile, it was something about the way she breathed, exhaled quickly through her nose. “And where do you end up then?”

Always with you, Sansa thought, and wished to say, but could not bring herself to reveal this out loud. It had not been so much about the places she could go for a long time now. More so about exploring new places together with Margaery.

“Lots of places,” she answered eventually. “But as of lately wherever I travel, I imagine doing so by ship.”

“I would not have picked you for a seafarer.”

“I genuinely do not know where that appeal comes from,” Sansa granted.

She had been on a ship merely once in her life, and then she had hidden below deck for the majority, part of her relieved, part of her petrified that it had all just been a dream, but in all overly wrapped up in her troubles and worries to even consider appreciating this new way of travel.

“Maybe it is more the sea, than the seafaring.”

Margaery hummed in acknowledgement. “That I understand.”

“It is remarkable, isn’t it? That water can bear such an enchantment, such a captivation.”

“It’s the freedom it portrays,” Margaery figured and sounded just a bit melancholic. “Mankind is cursed to pine for what they do not have.”

“But we are free,” Sansa yielded, sincerely a bit confused with what Margaery meant. “I’d dare to suggest we have higher freedom than most women and men in the seven Kingdoms.”

The grip on her hand tightened and Margaery moved against her, like she was struggling to find a comfortable position, then her movements stilled again and she inhaled.

“Are we though?” she challenged. “I’m not free to do what I want. Not by far. We can talk and dream for days about where we wish to ride and what we want to explore, but as of right now, neither you nor I can actually do so.”

“You are confusing independence with freedom,” Sansa returned. “Freedom is not about acting however you want in a moment’s consideration, not for me at least. More so not being forced to do something I did not choose.”

For a moment, silence extended between them as Margaery contemplated her words.

“I ought to sneak some gentle knight tale into your reading materials,” she declared then in a milder tone. “You are becoming smarter than me.”

A smile spread over Sansa’s face at that. For some while now she was no longer reluctant to oppose with people. With Margaery she nevertheless felt some hesitancy occasionally, maybe not reluctance, but regularly a hint of worry of how she would react. Sansa was not someone who was frightened of a debate, she could deal with men being upset with her without losing much sleep, but with Margaery she could not bear the thought.

“We could chalk it up to your good influence, if that helps?”

“No,” Margaery denied. “You did not need me for that. That is all you.”

There was a sense of delight, of admiration in her the way she said that, tenderness even. It warmed Sansa to the core and lifted away any longing to object and sell herself small. Some times in her life it had been safer to not let on how much she knew or comprehended about a matter. It had become an instinct to carefully retract from any compliments about her intelligence,  but if that was something that Margaery appreciated and admired about her she would be damned to do so around her.

When Margaery shifted again, urging securely towards her, Sansa angled her head and sought to take a glimpse at her face to check for traces of discomfort. The animal’s warmth created a tolerable temperature inside the stable, but they were sitting on trodden in soil, alone a thin layer of straw between themselves and cold. In their back the uneven surface of the wall was no warmer.

“Are you cold?” Sansa asked with worry. “I could find us a cover. I’m certain there are some fur saddle paddings somewhere.”

“I’m fine, sweet girl.”

There was a throaty chuckle in Margaery’s tone and it took Sansa just a heartbeat to catch on. Margaery’s form being pressed into hers had nothing to do with the cold, or even with discomfort. She wished to be close to her - closer. 

Even though Margaery did not look at her, Sansa lowered her eyes in mild shyness and was glad she could not see the heat surging to her cheeks. For that Margaery had called her smart only a minute ago she felt like the perfect fool. While she might have been prepared to keep her ground in an array of topics, this particular matter was something where Margaery was without dispute by lengths ahead of her.

In Sansa’s mind were about a million questions that related to this new development between them. Never before had she considered the gap between what she knew and what she didn’t know as grand. It was likewise not something she could study or read about. Her stock of books carried a considerable diversity, but most definitely not this kind.

As much as she wondered, she could not bring a question over her lips. What was even the appropriate way to bring up the kiss that they had just shared and the feelings that went with it? Was there even an appropriate manner? Sansa might have become more free in some issues, but she was still the lady she had been raised to be. Ever concerned to adopt the proper phrases, the ideal approach. And until she had worked out how to discuss this, she would not mention it, she concluded.

If she was being completely sincere, it was more fear than proper behaviour. She wished to ask so many things. Questions burned in her mind, still she did not dare to ask even one. Did not have the slightest concept how to and didn’t want to make a fool out of herself. An even bigger fool. But they were there nevertheless.

Questions about what this meant. Where they would go from here. How this could even work. When they could kiss again. If it would always feel as incredible.

Like with a number of other problems, mimicking actions seemed to be a reliable strategy and so Sansa rested her head on top of Margaery’s. A moment thereafter that content exhale, the one indicated a smile had formed on Margaery’s lips, showed that she’d made a good choice. Margaery’s scent filled her nose, that made her sure she could dose off just like this.

“Can I ask you something?” Margaery questioned.

Nervousness rose in Sansa’s chest at the seriousness of her tone. For a moment she considered that while she was maybe too anxious to bring up any of the questions that loomed in her mind, Margaery likely wasn’t. And it would not be the first occasion she read Sansa’s behaviour correctly. Sansa was not sure if she was ready to express anything that referred to her feelings to Margaery out loud.

“Of course,” she said anyway, practically naturally.

“I have been racking my brain,” Margaery moved on in the same serious voice. “If it is not lemon cakes, what is your favourite food?”

Sansa almost giggled in relief, and the agitation faded as swiftly as it had appeared. “That has been plaguing you, hasn’t it?” she teased.

“You are not precisely an open book,” Margaery stated. “Which I don’t particular mind, I feel it doesn’t matter, as long as I know enough of those small trivial details.”

“I’m afraid the answer will disappoint you.”

Margaery’s thumb drew along the outer edge of her palm, all the way to the tip of her pinky and back. “Try me.”

“It’s freshly baked bread.”

Margaery said nothing, just picked up the game of their hands again, loosened the strong grip and instead ran pointer and thumb over the length of each and every one of Sansa’s fingers. She stayed with these plain caresses and Sansa could do nothing but stare in fascination at their hands and revel in the warmth that extended from the tips of her fingers all the way up her arm.

“Why do I feel there is a story there?” Margaery asked, perceiving in her voice.

Because you know me, Sansa thought. Whether I tell you my whole life story or nothing at all, you inevitably just seem to know.

“It was the morning after the battle for Winterfell,” Sansa told. “I shared breakfast with Jon. We both weren’t truly hungry, I suppose even overly engrossed with the strains from the day, hell, the weeks and months, before. We sat at this table that was stacked up with food, just silently staring at it. I don’t quite recall why, maybe I was sorry for all the work that had gone into it and did not want to have it go to waste, but I forced myself to at least have a small bite of bread… and that tasted precisely like it had when I was little. I don’t know, I presume it was that point when I understood I was actually home. For real this time, and for good. Nothing has or will forever taste as perfect as that slice of bread.”

She could practically taste it just then, just speaking about it. In this retelling she did not speak about the tears that had followed. The moment where all that had happened crashed together over her head, and she had accepted that she indeed had survived it all.

Margaery seized perfectly that Sansa was caught in the memory, and did not speak again until she gradually resurfaced from it.

“And there goes making fun of you for conducting delicate pastry work with disregard for something so modest,” Margaery sighed, but hardly half serious.

“It’s utterly absurd, I know.”

“No. I understand it. Tastes and smells hold that unbelievable force to draw you back, to summon images, memories, even emotions.”

“Do you have any savour or smell that does that?”

Fingers entangled one more time tightly around Sansa’s. “This one right here,” she answered. “Of horses, leather, and straw. It prompts memories my childhood, of Highgarden, of prosperity.” She paused for a beat. “And after tonight I can undoubtedly add you to that list.”

The courage that Margaery’s word spurned surprised even Sansa; she turned, ducked her head down and pressed her lips against Margaery’s. Where she had been contemplating and reflecting before, now it all occurred simple to her; like kissing Margaery Tyrell was the most normal thing in the world.

Her lips pushed against Margaery’s, did no longer just linger as before, but gained more confidence, moved, seized a lower lip.  The hand that did not have an impossible strong hold on the one in hers, met Margaery’s face, slid over her cheek, along her jawline until it came to rest in her hair. Resembling the reassuring touch she had given Margaery earlier tonight when she had been nothing but a trembling picture of despair and the caress appeared as natural as it had then.

Margaery’s initial startled stillness faded fairly quickly. The hand that held Sansa’s unlocked and instead a pair cupped Sansa’s cheeks. Soft lips mirrored Sansa’s efforts, never moved further or for more, but seemed content with giving back what they received.

The yearning to never have this moment end was the sole consistent thought Sansa carried in her mind. It didn’t matter they were sitting on a filthy stable floor, and it did not matter that there were no glorious confessions; no words at all.

What was progressing between them was beyond explanations and declarations. Sansa felt it and she knew Margaery did too without her having to say anything. She could tell by the gentle way she held her face close, the almost imperceptible noises that came from her, could feel her heartbeat heavily throbbing below the line of her jaw.

Sansa had not realized, not even started to fathom, that a kiss could feel like this. That it could trigger so very much inside of her. In Margaery’s arms, under Margaery’s sweet kisses, she was so much herself, she almost did not recognise that person anymore. It felt like she became all she could not be in the past, all she was ever deemed to be.

Just the slightest bit out of breath, they separated from each other. The echo of quiet heavy breathing filled the silence between them and Margaery eyes looked at her with the fullest range of passions she had ever known. Sansa could not remember the last time  she had felt so profoundly cherished  in her life. So genuinely loved for simply herself.

That sensation momentarily overpowered her, and she dropped her head forward until it landed against Margaery’s shoulder; a small giggle escaped her. One of relief, of overwhelm, of unbearable bliss and fear all at once. Hands drew through her hair and held her close, for a moment it appeared like Margaery would sway her like an infant, but instead she ever so tenderly lifted her face to meet her eyes.

“Are you all right?”

Eyes filled with apprehension darted over her features and Sansa merely achieved a nod and a smile.

“You could say that,” she recited Margaery’s words in a voice that rang a lot huskier than expected.

With a smirk, Margaery shook her head imperfectively when she recognised her own words. “Maybe I am a bad influence after all.”

“No,” Sansa murmured and could not help the blush that creeped onto her cheeks. It was an odd thing, she figured. That she could be spirited and brave in showing her devotion through kisses and touches, but lost the intelligence to create a sentence when she sought to speak about it. Yet she was determined to go on.

“I didn’t know that it could feel like this,” she revealed, quietly and cautious. “After everything…-” she took a heavy breath “-I didn’t realize I was capable to still feel like this.”

“It’s the same for me,” Margaery replied and seized both of Sansa’s hands in her own. “I assumed I was beyond… all of this. And I’ve never been so glad to be mistaken.”

Sansa lowered her eyes to their joined hands, watched this time how Margaery did not play with them, how she did nothing but only held on, her eyes darted up then again to find Margaery’s.  

For only a brief moment Margaery studied Sansa face, before she shifted back against her side and curled into her, while never releasing her hold.

“Do you reckon Lady Mormont will accept your invitation?”

The change of topic was not subtle, or even gentle, but exactly what Sansa needed in her overwhelmed state of mind. Normality. Reading what she needed and acting accordingly was what Margaery did best.

“Why? Are you eager to meet her?”

“The ten-year-old who gives Lady Stark an anxiety rash with a letter?” She turned her head into Sansa’s shoulder to suppress a chuckle. “I cannot wait.”

“That will be very interesting to watch,” Sansa mused.

Margaery’s specialty was to lure someone in with nice and charming words, with smiles and looks; and Sansa knew for a fact that this was nothing Lyanna Mormont could be captured with. Olenna Tyrell no doubt would have been able to handle the girl, but with Margaery she was not so sure. Part of her looked forward to seeing Margaery out of depth like that.

“She seems like quite the character.”

“She is,” Sansa confirmed. “Especially for such a young age. Gods, when I was her age played with dolls and made flower crowns.”

Margaery nodded in affirmation. “Don’t you miss it?” she questioned with a longing in her voice. “Those days when your biggest worry was being sent to bed to early?”

The question touched heavier than it should have and Sansa did not want to consider a meaningful, thoroughly thought out answer, was reluctant where that would bring them, instead she chuckled. “I don’t see anyone trying to send Lady Mormont to bed.”

“Isn’t that tragic though?” Margaery mused, for once either not recognizing or ignoring Sansa’s evasion. “Your childhood should not end at such a young age. She should worry about games, friends and other childish antics. Not how many soldiers she can send off to war, or how best to provide for her people during winter.”

“I don’t know,” Sansa sighed. “She is circled by counsellors who mean well with her, who strengthen her and reinforce her in the best manner. Make her thrive in the finest way. Sure, she’s young, but there are poorer means to have your childhood come to a premature end.”

Was she honestly envious of a parentless girl obliged to reign over a realm instead of being a child? Sansa recognized it was unjust, but could not shake that off. Lyanna Mormont had been fortunate. She had been in her home and not surrounded by people who sought to influence and exploit her every step she took. Maybe her own story could have been like that, had she not been so eager to leave her home behind.

“Like yours’ did?”

“Yes,” she acknowledged bluntly. She did not need to dwell on these judgments. Nothing should spoil the happiness she felt right now. “But I presume I would not be where I am without it. Probably I would have never met you.”

Margaery turned her head and nuzzled her nose into Sansa’s cheek, lingering there, as if she needed to breathe her in, make sure that this was real. “All a matter of perspective, right?”

Sansa closed her eyes and leaned into the caress, it was enough to disarray any sinister or negative images. No, she could not have any regrets, not a single one, if this was where it had led her. If she grieved anything, than it was that she had not dragged Margaery with her the day she had fled King’s Landing; that she had ever lost her from her world in the first place.

“What are you thinking?” Margaery’s eyes peered up at her and she smiled.

Sansa grinned and shook her head. “You’ll think I’m silly.”

“Have a little faith,” Margaery demanded with a soft nudge to her side.

“I was just thinking that we should have departed King’s Landing together, after Joffrey died.”

How many things would have progressed different for them? Margaery would have not suffered in dungeons or almost died. She would have not been so overly susceptible for Littlefinger’s manipulations and for certain Margaery would have recognized the danger of Ramsay from a mile away. But would they be where they were now? Would the Stark banner fly over Winterfell? Would she have ever been reunited with her siblings?

“While I’m sure that would have been a splendid adventure to embark on, I don’t expect I would have been quite the travel companion you imagine,” Margaery weighed in.

“How so?” There was a touch of disappointment within her even though she rationally knew that there was a whole list of reasons why this would have not worked out.

“I was way too ambitious to leave King’s Landing behind,” Margaery explained. “So bundled up in my yearning to be queen. I think it would have killed me to give up on that.”

“Being queen nearly killed you,” Sansa reminded.

That thought still terrified her greater than anything, how close she had unknowingly been to none of this ever developing; Margaery not coming back to her life. Not brining joy and laughter along. And having to go eternity without knowing how _this_ felt.

“That’s what I required to learn my lesson,” Margaery expressed. “Had all not escalated the way it did, I’m certain I’d still be engaged up to my collar in struggles with Cersei.”

“That’s a rather-“ she searched for the proper word “-unusual approach to look at it.”

Margaery glanced up at her without raising her head. “You mean irrational?”

Sansa shook her head earnestly. “No. I think I get it.”

Some things, no matter how awful you had to conquer to understand. It was not fair, or even logical, but she no doubt would not be where she was now, who she was now, without everything she had dealt with and overcome. All the suffering, the pain, and the obstacles.

“I try not to speculate of what could have been,” Margaery stated. “That almost never ends happily.”

“You’re right, I know you are. But sometimes imagining what could have been is the sole thing that keeps me sane.”

“We shall find another way to accomplish that."

What followed that simple promise was another kissed pressed against her lips. And another, and another. Sansa smiled and melted into the touch, certain that that this was easily her new favourite method to take her mind elsewhere.

When they broke apart, they leaned back into one another and she felt her warm breaths touching the skin above her collar, tingling her. That, together with the fingers that still grazed her cheek, the pinky that taunted the spot just below her ear every now and then, had Sansa’s mind blissfully enwrapped.

At this stage Sansa swore she would have not cared if the night patrol never came back. She could have spent the remains of all eternity here if it meant it was just the two of them. 

Margaery’s form moved another time and she curled herself closer towards Sansa, even though there was hardly space for a sheet of paper between them. One hand hooked around her arm, as if she needed to hold onto her; the other fell from her face and tangled with Sansa’s tightly; her face was half hidden in the fabric of Sansa’s cloak and her eyes looked heavy, almost closed. She had prevailed the exhaustion only for so long.

“Maybe you should reconsider sleeping,” Sansa suggested gently.

Margaery only made a negating sound and Sansa smiled when she realized she had already drifted off. Not entirely, but if her deep and slow breaths were any indication, she was on the verge of sleep.

For a moment Sansa wondered where the troubles and uncertainties had gone that she had woken up with. That staggering feel of uneasiness that her realisation of her feelings for Margaery had brought along. In the morning she had considered Margaery’s words from the other day, about unrequited feelings, and she had found them terribly fitting at last, where they initially seemed excessive. The dread and the apprehension that Margaery might not feel for her like she did, that she was alone with these notions had made her feel utterly miserable.  

For the couple of days that Margaery accompanied her during her everyday chores Sansa had not come to appreciate it as much she had initially thought. Had more or less cursed her choice to take Margaery along, because it meant not being able to escape those feelings or ignore them. Margaery was constantly there. With her friendly smile, her soft words, her kind eyes. It had distracted Sansa more than she wanted to admit. Influenced her decisions whether she wanted it or not. Made it nearly inconceivable to think of something else besides Margaery.

When she had left to deliver the message for Lady Mormont to the Maester earlier tonight, it had been one of the first occasions in the last three days where Sansa had been on her own, and to her own dismay she had discovered that she had not appreciated it one bit. Almost as soon as Margaery was out the door, she had waited longingly for her to return; missed her even in those brief moments. That realization had left Sansa burying her face in her hands. She had been so incredibly overwhelmed with it all. She felt miserable when Margaery was around, but more so when she was not around? How did that even make sense?

As grand and frightening that concern had been, as incredible the sentiments were on their own, even better was the confirmation that she was not alone in them. Not only did it carry along hope and prospect. Every little thing in her existence seemed affected by it. Nothing seemed as bad, as striking or as unachievable anymore. There was nothing that she dreaded or feared. Not when Margaery held her, touched her or looked at her like she had tonight.

If this was what love felt like, than it legitimately did carry a vaster prospect than anything else, maybe more than life itself. Then Margaery had not been wrong. She would have missed out if she had gone on without ever knowing this feeling.

Sansa had a hard time estimating how long they remained there. Her thumb drew lazy shapes on the back of Margaery’s hand as she listened to her steady breathing and observed for any traces of distress that might suggest a bad dream, but that never appeared, merely that precious sound between heavy breathing and snoring.

The steps and voices that Sansa could make out from the outside some time thereafter brought a taste that resembled disappointment to her mouth, because it meant that this precious moment of togetherness was now indeed at an end. Still, she broke up the clasp of their hands and carefully shook Margaery awake.

“Time to wake up,” she announced softly, wishing to make the process of waking her as gentle as possible.

The weight disappeared from her shoulder and sleepy eyes blinked at her in incomprehension, as if she needed to recognize where she was and what had happened.

“I think the night patrol is back,” Sansa explained and gradually pushed into a kneeling position. Not a single fibre in her body wanted to create distance between them, but she nevertheless did, her eyes trained firmly on Margaery, who rubbed a palm over her face to wake up. Her hair was just the tiniest bit unkempt on the side that had been propped against Sansa. It made her look truly precious.

No matter how much she would have preferred to take in this charming, hardly awake, still disoriented version of Margaery, Sansa likewise recognized that she could not lose time, if they did not wish to wait for the patrol’s next round. Giving Margaery a final encouraging smile, she got to her feet and went the few steps to the entrance. In front of it she contemplated calling out, but settled on beating her flat palm against the heavy wood to bring attention to them. Once, twice; after the third time the voices from outside ceased abruptly as did the steps.

Margaery had moved up behind her and Sansa could hear her exhale of relief at the sound of the bolt moving. The gate was slowly drawn open and two faces illuminated only in the light of a flare met them with caution. She could see hands that rested on sword handles and two pair of eyes that gawked at them first in curious anticipation because they did not know whom or what to expect to encounter inside the stables at this time of the night, that turned to sheer confusion and then a hint of horror when they recognized her, and with that the grip on their blades loosened.

The two night guards seemed positively horrified, profoundly mortified that they had locked the Lady of Winterfell up in the stables at night. It was so grand, they did not even consider to question why she had been here so late. Instead they were squirming around her, inquiring if there was something she might desire or had missed due to this unfortunate happening.

When they had initially been trapped and Margaery had been so terribly unsettled, Sansa had vowed herself to offer the guards a proper piece of her mind for their mistake. But that had been before _everything_ , and even with her best effort she could not achieve more than a few chiding phrases and a stern look for both. It must have been sharp enough after all because at her dismissal they both rushed off into the darkness of the night.

The relief that should have appeared when they strode into the icy night air failed to materialise. Instead Sansa found herself distracted with the distance that was suddenly between herself and Margaery. The left side of her body still carried the remains of the weight and the warmth from when Margaery had leaned against her for the past hours, and now she felt incomplete, almost off balance.

All the way to Sansa’s chamber they did not touch, even when it otherwise it was not uncommon for them to hook their arms as they walked, now it was like an implied border not to cross. Sansa told herself that it was just that they needed to get inside quickly, this was not the usual stroll for their enjoyment; they were both tired and cold. Margaery, having just woken up, seemed even less able to handle the cold than any other night, she was faintly shivering even though she had kept her cloak folded around herself tightly.

When they had entered Sansa’s chamber Margaery steps instantly brought her to the fire place. Sansa observed her out of the corner of her eye, as she ridded herself of her own cloak. It was a little like watching snow melt. Her posture was rigid and slightly trembling, her expression tense with discomfort, and only ever so slowly both her body and her face relaxed.

As Margaery turned her head to face Sansa and she found herself reminded of a night from weeks ago. When they had been equally frozen through after their impromptu snow fight, and Margaery had offered her that very same expression and smile.

I have been so blind, Sansa thought.

Back then, this smile had brought the same comfortable warmth to her core as it did now. She had been feeling this way for Margaery way longer than she’d even understood, had just not grasped it at the time what it was.

There was a solid six feet distance between them, and studying Margaery’s face from this and seeing the way she looked at her, seemed heavier than it had when they were only inches apart. It might have been the soft light that enveloped them. She could make out Margaery’s adoring smile a lot more clearly than in the twilight of the stable, could read her eyes better, see the longing in them.

“Would you like help with your hair?”

Ever since she had arrived in Winterfell, there had not been a single night where she had not braided Sansa’s hair in the evening and the morning. Sansa felt that she inquired now had more to do with her than with Margaery. She wanted to know if that kind of touches, of closeness would now be a boundary, with everything they both knew now and had learned.

Sansa cleared her throat. “Yes, please.”

She settled into the chair, her eyes skimmed to Margaery’s through the mirror. Margaery’s were already focused onto her hands that worked on disentangling the updo. A light smile emerged when her hands came to a rest and pulled out a piece of straw, she brought it up for Sansa to look at in the mirror. “Perhaps not the best accessories,” she observed with a drawn up eyebrow.

Sansa could see the blush on her cheeks in the mirror. “I ordinarily have better taste than that.”

Whether it was on purpose or unintentional, Sansa could not know, but different from any other day, Margaery’s hands did not reach her skin a single time during her work. Anytime she felt the anticipation, the thrill that she might in a moment, fingers drew away, skimmed down the strands of her hair. It disappointed Sansa as much as it irritated her.

Just as the silence between them. Neither of them spoke. Sansa did not quite know how to approach it, and that made her feel ridiculous. Not even an hour ago, Margaery’s lips had been on her own and now she did not know how to talk to her, or better yet what to talk to her about.

It disconcerted her even more that Margaery did not speak either, only smiled sweetly and worked in silenced. This time around, for the first time ever maybe, the silence wasn’t pleasant, but if anything tense. At least that was how it appeared for Sansa. It spurred this need in her to tear through it, to say something.

“Tomorrow I ought to engage in the matter of the seamstress’ complaint.” Nearly desperate to fill the silence she chose the first thing that entered her mind; anything to concentrate on something else, anything but what the silence could mean, and Margaery’s fingers that were so close to where she would have preferred them but yet never made it there. “She brought it up a couple of times that the waste pit is too close to her working parlour and it stinks up the complete chamber. Which is understandably disturbing and disgusting, but sincerely what does she predict me to do at a moment’s notice? It has been there for ages, and in winter time I cannot without obstacles just send men out to have it covered in soil. Harvesting that from a ground frozen solid is more than a little inconvenient.”

Just stop talking, she begged of herself. Shut your mouth and endure the silence, you fool.

She may have known little about what was appropriate to say to a woman you just kissed and wished to kiss again, but she suspected speaking about the waste pit was not it -at all. Her lips moved on their own accord and continued speaking, still.

“There would always be the possibility of transferring her sitting room, but that is something she declines. She believes that she requires the light there, which is absurd in winter time, because there is hardly any light at all. I’d prefer to just discount the appeal altogether, but I can’t just do that to the woman who sew my first–”

“Sansa?” Margaery interrupted, and her palms landed on her shoulders gently.

Perpetually grateful for the interruption, Sansa paused in her speech, found Margaery’s eyes through the mirror and looked at her in shy expectancy.

“Breathe,” Margaery ordered.

Hands tightened around her shoulders and giving a reassuring squeeze, triggered Sansa into following the request. She inhaled and then found Margaery’s eyes with a little less insecurity.

Then nimble fingers closed around her hair, and Sansa expected she would just go back to brushing it, but instead Margaery draped the mane over her right shoulder like she was trying out a new updo. Then she leaned forward over her right, guiding Sansa’s face up with a gentle fingers. Sansa’s eyes fluttered closed as she pressed a delicate kiss onto her lips, lasting just long enough for Sansa’s mind to slow down again and forget about everything what was on her mind a moment ago.

Without another word, but simply a content smile, Margaery straightened her posture and went back to the work on Sansa hair as if nothing had ever happened. She had her eyes concentrated on the work her hands were doing when she spoke.

“In Highgarden we had a large wooden shed set up around the waste pit. It helps with the smell. Maybe that is something you ought to regard,” she declared calmly. “As you describe it seems like your best choice.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Sansa nodded stupidly. “An excellent resolution, thank you.”

“Always glad if I can be of service,” Margaery returned and concentrated on the work her hands were doing. The silence came back but not for a long this time. Margaery did not look at her as she spoke. “It’s not just you that is confused with this.”

It took Sansa a moment to catch that this was no longer about the waste pit issue.

“It’s new. And I think we should have a long conversation about it,” Margaery continued on, her eyes trained on the tips of Sansa’s hair where she had almost finished the braid and the movements of her fingers became slower. Merely when she had knotted it off with a bow, her eyes darted up then and the pressure of Margaery’s hands returned to her shoulders and soft eyes found her own through the mirror. “For now, let’s just try to not let it change us? Our friendship is the remaining important thing in my life, and no matter how much further anything else goes and how wonderful this feels… I don’t think I could bear it, if it reduced us to not knowing how to talk to each other.”

This particular look, the one that had been in her eyes right after the first kiss, had returned to Margaery. No matter how confident she acted and how further developed her knowledge was in all of this, she was just out of her depth as Sansa. Just as frightened.

Sansa’s eyes never left Margaery’s and her hand reached to rest on top of Margaery’s on her shoulder. “I’m afraid, I will require your guidance with that from time to time,” Sansa admitted thus cautiously.

“That I am more than delighted to provide,” Margaery promised.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all - thank you, thank you, thank you for the overwhelming feedback to the last chapter! Every single comment, kudos, subscribtion makes me more happy than I could ever tell you. 
> 
> I hoped you enjoyed where I took the scene between our girls in this chapter.   
> I'd very much apprecaite any kind of feedback as to what you think about it, as I don't know why, but I'm feeling just the tiniest bit insecure about this one.   
> So please: Let me know what you liked, what you didn't like, what could need improvement, what you would like more of... 
> 
> Once again thanks for reading! I'll do my very best not to let you wait too long for the next chapter!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

“We’re late.”

Margaery’s protest was poor and not meant honestly, not even half.

“I know.”

She could feel Sansa’s smiling against her lips, felt her hot breath against them. She didn’t care, Margaery understood, and neither did she.

Her former appeal to Sansa not to have anything change between them had been genuine. Merely two days had passed since that eventful night in the stables and Margaery had tried, they had tried their best not to let their new established closeness overthrow the so carefully built everyday routine, but ultimately all had changed.

It was in all they did, whether they shared a meal, strode through the courtyard or stood next to each other in the Great Hall. That yearning to touch each other, or alike just to address those feelings with words or looks, was constantly there, and Margaery considered it a little harder every day not to do so, and keep what they felt for each other under the wraps.

On the first morning, the kiss they had had been brief, with still some lingering shyness; it had been already considerably harder the next day, more evident to them that the harsh world of their reality would not provide a moment like this for lengthy hours.

Today neither of them found it in herself to quite force an end to it. They were remaining in Sansa’s chamber’s long after their familiar morning routine had ended, fit to leave for the day, fit to meet Lord Baelish for breakfast, but that was the farthest thought on both of their minds. Margaery was leaning against the door through which they should have left a while ago and Sansa in front of her, assaulting her lips with one kiss after the other.

Sansa had this way to kiss her, it altered from everything she had ever encountered. Her kisses were not the most skilled that had ever touched her lips, and by far not all that bold or even passionate. They remained very chaste throughout it all. Pecks, brushes, lingering touches. Nothing that would have made Margaery ever consider it could turn her into a quivering mess.

And still here she was, leaning against a door, so her feet would not give out beneath her.

It was more than just physical. More a connection they shared that went far beyond this, one that grew from her caring so profoundly for Sansa, like she had never cared for someone else.

“Sansa,” Margaery sighed against her lips one more time. The part of her mind that was still functioning tried it’s best to stop her from bringing an end to this, but it was no use. They could certainly not hide out in here all day. No matter how much they both wished to.

Soft hand’s halted their movement on her cheeks and she could feel the warmth coming from them, and Sansa drew back just enough to be able to look her in the eye.

“Voice of reason is not a strong look on you,” she declared softly.

It took all of Margaery’s willpower to not just leap back in and kiss those already swollen lips another time. She craved to fade into this girl, encase her in her arms and never let her go again, never forgo her warmth, her smell, her taste. Never forget those slightly darkened blue eyes that were swimming with devotion and wanting.

“I have never despised myself more,” Margaery promised.

She let her head slump back against the door and looked at Sansa still from the bit more distance. Could Sansa even fathom how much she wanted her, how deep her emotions for her ran? Margaery doubted it; it was hardly altogether transparent to herself.

Her hands reached up from Sansa’s waist to smooth the hair she had messed up when she had entangled it in between her fingers. “I ought to make your updos a bit more stable,” she declared with a smirk.

Sansa’s hand withdrew from Margaery’s face and settled on the one working on smoothing out her hair, bringing it forward to her cheek and leaning into the touch.

“An excellent notion,” she granted, and her lips touched Margaery’s wrist.

Margaery’s eyes fluttered close at the touch. If a kiss to her wrist could feel like this, then there was no doubt that this girl would be the end of her.

For Sansa’s usual shyness, she had turned out to be extremely keen for these displays of devotion. For the circumstance that she still blushed to her hair line whenever they got to speaking about it, at the practical parts she was a perfect natural. Eager, tender, full of surprise.

They granted themselves to have the moment last just a couple of seconds longer. It was their way of preparing themselves for what awaited them outside of that door; a world where they had to act like none of this ever took place where they were not able to even share a look that lingered a note too long.

When Margaery had assumed following Sansa throughout her day had been hard before, now it was virtually tortuous. Even though her days were filled with more things to accomplish than in weeks more than ever, it seemed like they constricted her to those all to small hours in the dawn of the day and late at night when she was alone with Sansa.

Sharing breakfast with Lord Baelish was a particular undesirable circumstance. During every other time in the day she felt they got away with small smiles when nobody was watching, or where fingers accidentally brushed when passing over a jug of water. In a sense it was alike exciting, adventurous, to slip in signals of affection, she did, however, not dare to do so with him present.

If she was a thorn in his side before, should he ever discover what had formed between her and Sansa, Margaery would now not feel safe a moment of her day anymore. It was one matter that he thought her as valuable asset, as someone he could manipulate for his own purposes; but she did not want to find out what would happen if he ever learned that she was the one who got to hold Sansa in her arms, touch and kiss her, when it was the one thing she was sure he fiercely craved.

While she was extremely cautious with how to act around him, on the guard with not alone what she said, but how she said it and where her line of vision directed while speaking, the need to touch Sansa was never better evident and nearly painful as when he was there.

No matter how much in command she was of her appearance and expression, the thoughts in her mind consisted of nothing less than hostility. Where there had been a definite jealousy and disdain for the man before, what now enwrapped her thoughts was impossible possessiveness and the foolish, but yet nearly irresistible, craving to shove it in his face, that Sansa was not his and would never be.

Whenever she spotted his eyes lingering on Sansa or had to listen to the compliments he made her, it drew all of her willpower not to move over and just pull Sansa into her arms and kiss her long enough for that chumming look to melt off his face once and for all.

Pointless to say she was not stupid enough to carry out that craving. The sensible side of her might have been subdued when it came to Sansa in specific, but she had not lost her grasp of self-preservation.

Yet she seldom ever waited longer than him turning his back to leave the room before she reaching for Sansa’s hands – since the night in the stables Sansa had forwent wearing gloves when it was possible – and let her thumb sweep over her knuckles with a deep look into her eyes.

Sansa only smiled then. A particular smile, one new to Margaery. One that revealed she perceived exactly what she was doing and why, and that she adored it. She cherished that jealous slightly possessive side of her. It was so awfully hard not to close the small distance between them whenever Sansa granted her that smile.

“Who knew I’d ever be grateful for Littlefinger’s presence,” Sansa breathed as she followed their hands play with each other on the table. “I think I’ll encourage him to join us for every meal.

Margaery pursed her lips and her moves stilled for only a flash. “I’d end up strangling him, if you do that.”

Sansa wavered for a moment before she dared to find Margaery’s eyes. “You know despite what his interests might be… I don’t tend for him like that, right?”

“I figured,” Margaery replied with a quip in her voice. “I do have eyes. I assume he is the only one who does not recognize your quite evident discontent.”

“He can be a bit of a burden,” Sansa sighed.

Margaery resolved to let go of the topic of him. Fixated on the hand that seized onto her own instead and offered it a little squeeze. She already counted the minutes until it would be just the two of them again. Until the door to Sansa’s chamber would close again. With a certain enchantment, she watched as finger tips danced against as if they were playing a game that neither of them knew. 

“What is on the agenda for today?” Margaery asked and reluctantly brought her eyes away to round up her concentration. “Anything in particular I can support you with? A letter to draft? A message to deliver?”

Anything that would keep her from spending another morning across from Sansa with nothing to do. Sitting with Sansa in her solar watching her work had turned into nothing short of excruciating. Because as it was a halfway public location, where anybody could walk in at a moment’s notice and she could not do as she preferred to, no matter how marvellous the temptation. And it was great. She wanted to touch Sansa constantly. And if the looks that Sansa gave her where any suggestion, so did she.

Sansa did not make it any simpler for her. Sought her opinion more regularly than before, and when Margaery moved to stand next to her and have those vivid blue eyes sparkle up at her, concentrating on the letter or report in front of her was almost inconceivable; she could not focus on anything anymore, but those lovely features and those deeply inviting lips. She honestly doubted as well that even half of the things Sansa asked her about were out of her mental grasp. Most likely she enjoyed it thoroughly, those brief moments where they stood next to each other, their arms or hands brushed.

“What I have lined up is so boring, I barely want to do it myself,” Sansa sighed.

“Well, that is what a handmaiden is for,” Margaery asserted. “To make your life a little simpler.”

The deep, but still fairly timid, look Sansa gave her made any words unnecessary. Margaery could read what she thought from her eyes. They had made each other’s lives so much simpler already, so much more bearable.

“You realize you don’t have to do that.”

“I wish to,” Margery returned decisively. “Anything to decrease your workload.”

Sansa’s eyes glistened at her for a moment, assuming then where Margaery’s motivation came from. All to disgorge her, anything to establish her day end sooner than it had the past days. Anything that let them return to the privacy of Sansa’s quarters sooner rather than later.

“I have a couple of letters that require to be summarised. All reports about ongoing status of winter preparation throughout the North.”

Margaery nodded, content with that answer. Yes, that sounded just dreary enough to keep her mind occupied for a couple of hours. “If you give me a swift instruction, I’d be more than happy to take care of it.”

“That will have to wait for the afternoon,” Sansa stated, and offered the hand in her own a final squeeze before she let go.

“And what are we undertaking this morning?” Margaery blinked intrigued. She recalled no necessary inspections or anything of the sort being discussed in the past days.

“Well, I thought we could ride to the sawmill by the Wolf’s Wood. It is always beneficial to establish presences beyond the barricades of Winterfell, and a closer look at the new construction is long outstanding.”

Sansa went to her feet and finished the last sip of her cup standing while Margaery could merely look up at her with an expanding knot in her gut even though she displayed a steady smile. While she understood perfectly that this trip was for her benefit, and she cherished Sansa so very much for the thought; she was in no condition to mount a horse, deemed it unsafe even.

Nevertheless she could not just reject the excitement that emitted from Sansa and let her smile grow broader as she stood up too. “What a wonderful idea,” she declared with just a good measure of enthusiasm.

“I hoped you would appreciate it,” Sansa told and reached for her hand again, locking their fingers. “Still, we will have to postpone it.”

Margaery refused herself the exhale of relief, but tightened her hold on Sansa’s hand. “And why is that?”

“The repairs are not completed still,” she explained with obvious displeasure that the plan had fallen through. “They advised that until they are done, is not much to see.”

Margaery smiled tightly, awfully comforted that not only she would not have to find an excuse right away, but that this too gave her a couple of days’ time to develop up with a better one than forging a fall and an injury on their way to the stables. She did her best to forget the stinging bad conscience that this brought along.

It was not the first time this sense of regret made itself perceivable within her mind. Not by long. This day alone had carried about five occasions already that had been influenced by her constantly growing stomach. From the minute she woke where she laced her corset so very rigidly it was unpleasant, to the several layers of clothing, shawls and furs she wrapped herself in to the point where she was almost wilting most of the time, despite the freezing temperature. And alike with all that, whenever Sansa was physically close to her, she had her hands on Sansa’s waist as a measure of managing the distance between them.

While it had not been simple to discount for a while now, with the movements and kicks becoming more and more persistence, Margaery now found herself at an extent where it virtually took her breath away. It was something that kept her awake long past midnight and fear how long she could sustain up this farce, and then she’d almost felt sick.

She had missed her chance to tell Sansa, had missed any chance that would have been proper, and now she was confronted with either telling her, and the prospect that it would crush everything that had flourished between them, or wait for her figuring it out on her own, which would end even more feasibly in the same scenario. Either way, no matter how she turned and twisted it, things would change between them inevitably thereafter, and Margaery was not sure how she would survive, now she had experienced what _this_ felt like.

Margaery recognized she had to come clean; and sooner rather than later. She had been such a fool not to be sincere with her from the beginning. She had delayed it until all was essentially fatally complicated, and it would only become more and more complicated the longer she dragged it out.

Not for the first time, the determination to just get it over with and tell her built in her, but unlike before she felt she had so much to lose, so much sitting on Sansa’s reaction. She did not think she could bare Sansa withdrawing from her or even being upset with her. She was the one factor in her existence that even had significance, that gave her comfort, how could she willingly put this at risk?

“I’m sorry if this disappoints you.”

Sansa’s words, jointly with a hand that landed on her arm, drew Margaery from her thoughts, and with the adoration she could see on her face, the worry she had upset her, that little of tentative decisiveness dissolved wholly.

Another time, Margaery told herself. She’d tell her, but she would find another time.

 “It’s all good. It’s great to have something to look forward to.”

The substitute activity, however, managed to let Margaery forget her troubles once again. She had picked up about the expansion of the Glass Gardens, had seen the buildings from afar, and had curiously examined workers carrying big glass panels through the courtyard, but so far they had not gotten around to looking at them.

Upon stepping into them, Margaery found the allegation that life in the North was behind in developments compared to the South one more time devitalized. The structure consisting of glass and steel was nothing short of impressive. With her mouth open in astonishment, Margaery strayed away from Sansa, who received a detailed report from the groundsman, and wandered through the beds where countless fruits and vegetables where groomed. The warmth within the building was astonishing, just like the possibilities it provided.

She came to a hold where two small bushes where growing, and pulled off a glove as she knelt down and inspected the familiar leaves between her fingers. The shrub was not carrying any blossoms yet, the buds were still closed tightly, but she’d recognize the flower anywhere still.

“I see you found our treasure.”

In her fascination with the plant she had not noticed the groundsman and Sansa coming up behind her.

“I did,” she nodded and stood up straight. “A Brimstone rose?”

She only allowed herself a small glance to Sansa, but the expression on her face was enough to understand perfectly.

“A good eye,” the groundsman acknowledged.

“I’m astonished to find a flower that was originally groomed in Dorne, growing so far up North.”

“It was a little like nurturing a baby bird,” the man admitted. “But I’m confident we brought them through the roughest patch. Now it is only to wait until it blossoms. That will take a longer time than usual.”

“Arvid was just about to show me the new irrigation system. I was hoping you’d join us.”

With a nod Margaery pulled her glove back on and for the moment abandoned what seeing this rose blossom here stirred within her.

“Certainly,” she declared and once again turned to the groundsman. “From what I’ve heard the technology behind it seems almost sorcery.”

The demonstration of it was only a little less than that. Once again the hot springs that lay beneath Winterfell had been made perfect use of. Through a simple and yet brilliant system of clay slopes, the water was transported from the underground hot springs, cooled down on the way, and conveniently directly brought to the plant beds. It was nothing short of striking use of resources.

“An impressive and very efficient method,” Margaery noted after the hour they had spent walking and inspecting the glass gardens and were once again back in the fresh and freezing air, that almost felt refreshing right then.

“It almost wasn’t built,” Sansa explained. “No one believed that it would work, and I’d been advised against it from more than one side.”

“Good thing that you did not listen,” Margaery acknowledged with a bit of pride in her tone. 

One more time Margaery, felt a certain admiration in Sansa, not only for her talent for leading, but also for her foresight, that she invested time and effort into these new technologies. A lot of people would have stuck to only what they knew and were suspicious of any new things. It was the way her Grandmother had handled things. While she had easily adapted to change most of her life, it was not something she brought forward or encouraged herself.

A comment about the rose bushes was on the tip of Margaery’s tongue, but before she had a chance to form the words, found herself pushed into alcove that consisted of the wall of the armoury to the one side and the margin wall of the Gods Wood to the other. Shielded from any unwanted looks, Sansa was right in front of her and giving her that certain look, that certain smile, the one that went through and through, and was just the tiniest bit mischievous.

Even through her smile and the way her hands extended and reached under Sansa’s long cloak until she found a firm hold on her waist, Margaery could not help herself with the slight chiding look she gave Sansa. “This is perhaps not the best idea, sweet girl.”

Sansa ducked her head just the tiniest bit closer and her eyes held a certain amount of daring as she held her look firmly. “Stop me then.”

It was small moments just like this one in which Margaery realized she was up to her neck with her feelings for this woman, and for just this moment it felt so very wonderful she would not fight it a moment longer. It was not like she even stood a chance against the grandness of her feelings for Sansa Stark. The more she recovered about her, the more this bolder side of her grew, the more she never wanted to let her go. And it made her feel on top of the world.

Lips moved softly against her own, a pair of hands moved over the nape of the neck into her hair and pulled her closer head closer and deeper into the kiss.

“I don’t think I could have waited until tonight to do this,” Sansa confessed against her lips, in a brief moment between kisses.

“I cherish your impatience,” Margaery returned, tightening the hold she had on Sansa’s waist. Even though that had the purpose of controlling their proximity, it did not break Sansa’s enthusiasm when it came to kissing her. It was adorable in a way, somehow kissing seemed to be like a toy that someone gave to Sansa and she wanted nothing more than to discover all the ways to play with it.

Margaery loved this new side on Sansa. Not that she had not cherished Sansa before, but this slowly growing bolder version was insanely enjoyable.

Margaery could not help but wonder how that enthusiasm would play out should they ever approach other things, and that idea send a pleasant shiver down her spine. So far things were fairly innocent between them. Not even passionate kisses, even though just these pecks that they shared felt already so much more intimate than the one or other partner she had shared a bed with.

Sansa was wonderful. It was wonderful to be this close to her. Wonderful to know that she returned those feelings that had been blooming for the longest time.

That she of all people was deserving of this affection that Sansa felt for her still felt surreal. She did not feel deserving. It was strange really, all her life Margaery was nothing if not a confident woman, and yet she could not help, but wonder what it was that had caused Sansa to develop this feelings for her in the first place. A ridiculous thought, but one that would not leave her mind.

In the past she had been sure of her good looks when it came to matters of seduction. Had known that not many people were able to resist her. It was her expertise on how to choose the right words, smile at the right occasion, or give an innocent touch which she knew would leave her opposite trembling.

The difference with Sansa was that she had not tried. Had not planned for this to happen. Quite the opposite. Margaery had done her very best to keep it amicable between them. Not to hold those long looks, which she only now understood fully. Not to offer her words that could be counted as influencing or flattering. At least not to the amount that it would lead to this.

Physical affection had been a game with Margaery for most of her life. One that had come supported by her surroundings. She had been fifteen when she had been with someone for the first time. At the time she had been so eager, so sure of herself, despite her inexperience, so much so that it almost made her feel embarrassed now. Back then she had seen it as not more as a way of practice. Had heard many times by her grandmother how important it was for a woman to play her cards right. Margaery had done her best just to do that, had participated in this game eagerly for a while.

And then Lecia had happened to her. She had seen this beautiful girl, had seen her smile, and that eagerness for experience had shifted into something else. They had been so innocent, not in terms of skill, but in terms of feelings. They both had known very well about the physical aspects of what was possible for them, and had started out with that, but somewhere along that, somewhere after their first couple of nights together it had stilled, for both of them. And instead of passion there had been more innocent touches, longer times of gazing into the other’s eyes. Endless moments of just holding each other at night.

With Sansa it was almost exactly the other way around. It was a way more spiritual bond from the beginning. A connection, deeper than any physical attraction could ever go. They were exactly what the other needed, were so aware and mindful of it.

This time Margaery did not see it as a game, even though under different circumstances it would have been an enjoyable one to play with Sansa. To get her out of her reserve, to dare her slowly and without her even noticing. To catch her by surprise with a passionate kiss when she least expected it.

But as the circumstances were, she had had not planned for any of this to happen. At all. Still felt for a variety of reasons that it was a dangerous development. Only the rational side of her mind was shut down very easily every time that Sansa kissed her.

In a short moment that lips drew away from her own she felt hot breath against her ear, tickling and making her weak in the knees. “Do you still think this was a bad idea?”

Margaery let her cheek brush against Sansa’s, loving the feel of her warm soft skin. “You make some convincing arguments,” she returned in a breathy whisper.

And with that they dove into yet another string of kisses and soft caresses. Unable to stop, unable to let go.

When they separated finally Margaery was greeted with a cordial smile from Sansa that she could not help, but reciprocate.  Sansa looked so pretty in this moment, Margaery could feel her heart swell with affection to the point where she had to break the eye contact in order not to dive in for yet another, more passionate kiss. Sansa looked more beautiful and graceful than she had ever seen her. Even though Margaery’s mental list of the times she had thought that seemed to get longer and longer, but it was nevertheless true each time.

As they slipped from the alcove Margaery found her heart stopping when they found themselves face to face with the pantler, immediately she forced a friendly smile to her face, and searched her mind for a valid explanation, only able to blink in surprise when Sansa beat her to it.

“The brickwork of the armoury is in dire need for repointing,” she spoke in an exasperated way and a tone that suggested that it was yet another thing she had to worry about. “Could I ask you to arrange for the mason to take a look at it?”

Margaery suppressed a smile, astonished by how easy the lie fell from Sansa’s lips and how sincere she sounded. That was a side she had not seen on Sansa yet, one she was more intrigued by than she cared to admit. For only a moment she wondered whether that ability to lie like this was a more recent development in Sansa or one that she had. The effortless transition however from a sincerely apologetic face to a brief and intense look of longing as she turned made Margaery almost sure that this must have always been one of Sansa’s talent. That was nothing that could be learned.

Once the man had disappeared to do her bidding as requested she gave Sansa an appreciative look but did not comment, and the Lady Stark of Winterfell mask fell from Sansa’s face as quickly as it had appeared before and in its place slipped a small, nearly shy smile.

“Can I ask you something?” Margaery opened as they stepped along back to the main courtyard.

“Of course.”

“Those Brimstone roses,” through the corner of her eye Margaery thought she saw a small blush creep to Sansa’s cheeks, “those are not something you typically find in a northern garden, even in summer time I’d assume.”

“No, they’re not,” Sansa reluctantly admitted. “We’ve had the seeds imported.”

The question to the why, burned on Margaery’s lips, but she did not ask it. Decided to save it for later, as she felt that quite possibly the answer would not be something that Sansa could give in such a public space. Instead she settled on a discreet smile, and kept on trudging through the snow.

A more harmless reply was on the tip of Margaery’s tongue, but when she took a quick look at Sansa she saw that the soft smile and blush from a second ago had disappeared and in its place was caution and hesitance. When she followed her line of sight and discovered Arya Stark standing on the gallery, looking down on them with that usual expression in her eyes, the one that was distant and all too in the know about something they were not even aware themselves.

Really Margaery could not blame Sansa for her reluctance towards her sister. There was something in her eyes, something that suggested she knew everything, knew about what they had been doing hidden behind walls, knew what they had spoken about, knew about the secret that Margaery was hiding under layers of clothes.

Sansa’s steps had grown slower and Margaery could see that she was contemplating silently as she made her way up the stairs towards the gallery. When they arrived on the top she halted and did not take the way to her chambers, but hesitated and took her sister in, whose back was facing them now. Margery gave her a short and inquiring look and understood what she had to do.

“Why don’t I give the two of you a moment,” Margaery suggested quietly.

There was still a good amount of hesitance, even anxiety in Sansa’s features, but she slowly nodded.

“I’ll wait in your chambers,” Margaery continued. “Send for me if you need me.”

She felt only a little bad for pushing Sansa the way that she had, but at the same time knew that this was a conversation that was long overdue for the sisters, and hoped that they would resolve whatever caused this distance and distrust between them.

That feeling of envy she had may have been overshadowed with everything else that was on her mind and had happened in the last couple of days, but it was still very much there. That need to tell Sansa of just how ridiculous they were behaving. That all those misunderstandings were nothing, but a result of them not talking to each other. That instead of trying to find out what the other’s motivations were they should get over their mistrust for each other and count their blessings that they still had a family to fight with.

She was biased in this, of course, and realized that it was not that easy in reality of feelings for your family, but from where she stood it did look just that simple. So very simple.

It was more than only a little hypocritical of her to push Sansa in this direction. To force her and Arya to have a necessary conversation when she herself had avoided having one with Sansa for the last couple of days now.

To be fair, she had made a couple of attempts within the last couple of days, but they had always ended up… distracted. The pattern was always the same, Margaery tried to open the conversation and almost instantly an adorable look of shyness appeared on Sansa’s face as she lowered her eyes. The comforting squeeze of her hand that Margaery then offered never stayed just that.

It was in a way frustrating, because Margaery felt it was important for them to talk, and on the other hand she was relieved every time. Because a talk, a real and honest conversation still held the ability to end all that had grown between them once and for all.

So, no, she did not push for them to talk. Did not dare, not when it had the potency to rob her of nights where they sat in front of a warm fire, held hands and shared dozens of small kisses and caresses.

When Sansa came back to her chamber it took Margaery all of two second to read the look on her face. The expression that was not only clearly upset, but at the same time tense. In only two heartbeats Margaery was on her feet and took Sansa’s hands in her own.

“What happened?”

The tired, almost anxious look on her face, worried Margaery sincerely.

“What is it?” she asked with worried eyes.

Sansa merely sighed and shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

They sat down on the window sill and Sansa looked a little lost at where to even begin. Like she had not quite contemplated herself what had actually happened just now.

“I take it talking with your sister did not work out as you hoped?” Margaery carefully probed and tried to help her along.

“You could say that,” Sansa responded with a frustrated expression. “We had another argument.”

Margaery had to swallow words of chiding; what was the matter with these two? Caution and distance was one thing, but this was getting ridiculous.

“About what?”

Sansa shook her head like she could not quite believe it herself. “About my trustworthiness,” she bit out then. “What else.” With a heavy sigh Sansa shook her head as if to rid herself of what had just happened. “Can we not speak about it, please?”

On so many other occasions before, Margaery had accepted Sansa’s need for a change of topic; a short look in Sansa’s strained expression told her that she could not allow it this time around.

She tilted her head and let a hand brush over the side of Sansa’s face.  “You’re reluctance to speak about it does very little to ease my mind, sweet girl.”

Leaning into the touch of her hand Sansa closed her eyes for a short moment and her face relaxed and lost some of its anxiety.  Then she straightened her posture, turned her head to look out the window and Margaery’s hand fell from her face.

“I don’t know how, but Arya has gotten her hands on a scroll, a letter I wrote years ago, shortly after our father was imprisoned.”

Margaery felt her heart drop at the words, as she knew all too well what letter Sansa was talking about. The one that Lord Baelish had shown her only a couple days ago. The one she had felt was a danger in his hands and yet had done nothing about it.

“Cersei forced me to write it, pleading to Robb to bend the knee, in order to save our father’s life,” she shook her head frustrated with herself and looked out the window as if she was ashamed to even look at Margaery. “I was stupid enough to believe her at the time.”

“You were a child,” Margaery reasoned softly.

Sansa nodded with frustration in her face. “Yes, well so was Arya, even younger than myself, and she did not trust the Lannisters for even a moment. I was all too enwrapped in my-oh-so-great love for Joffrey, and my fear that he could not want me as his bride any longer. Maybe even more than I was worried for my father. If I had not been so blind--”

“Sansa,” Margaery’s firm tone interrupted her. “Don’t do this. You know better than that.”

She would not allow her to do this kind of self-flagellation, not allow her to blame herself over something that happened when she was barely more than a child and under the force as someone as vile as Cersei.

Hard eyes met Margaery’s. “I’m afraid what I know or don’t know doesn’t matter. Not when Arya makes true of her threat to show it to the northern Lords.”

Margaery pondered over it for a moment. “What good would that do her?”

“If she thinks she thinks I betrayed our father, during a time when his life was in the balance, I don’t know what she would do.”

Margaery shook her head with a frown. “You don’t really believe that she would harm you?”

Sansa took her gaze back out the window with a lost expression. “That is just the point. I don’t know anymore. I don’t know _her_ anymore.”

Margaery got that Sansa was too emotionally involved right now to focus on the big picture. But she tried to concentrate on the facts that they knew right now. And that was that Arya was angry. After years that she’d spent far away from home, she came home. And Margaery could see how the initial comfort and satisfaction in this could fade very quickly, once she had figured out that it was not the same home she remembered. And never would be again. Looking for someone she could blame for this, might have not been fair, but Margaery found it understandable to some level. No, in Margaery’s eyes, Sansa was not in any real danger from her sister.

“It’s funny, when we started talking she told me this story about our father, and as I listened to her, I actually believed that maybe we would make progress, remember who we were as a family.”

The sense of guilt started to rise in Margaery’s throat like bile. She was to blame for this mess, at least partially, to blame for Sansa being so upset right now. She had seen the scroll, had understood the potential harm it could do in Lord Baelish’s possession and she had done nothing. Had not tried to take it from him or even just figure out what he wanted to with it. She had failed to tell Sansa about it. And how in the world was she supposed to tell her about it now without explaining to her why she had failed to tell her about her visit and the reason for her visit in his chambers in the first place. A grand mess she had produced there for herself - and for Sansa.

Just as she had not allowed Sansa to blame herself, she would not allow that for herself either. Guilt clouded her mind and if she knew anything about Lord Baelish, than that it was exactly what had been his intention. Her not being able to tell Sansa that she knew for a fact he had something to do with it, would not mean that she would support him even indirectly in whatever game he is playing.

Sansa was smart, it would not take a lot to take her line of thinking in the right direction.

“How did she get her hands on that scroll in the first place?” Margaery’s tone made the question sound almost incidental, as if she was merely thinking out loud, not like she had quite the weight it did.

Initially Sansa did not seem to catch the importance behind the question, so she shook her head in lack of knowledge. “Who knows? She’s been roaming around Winterfell for the past couple of weeks like a bloody cat. She could have gotten it from anywhere.”

“Or anyone?” Margaery wondered out loud.

 Sansa looked up and met Margaery’s eyes. Margaery could see that now at last the wheels had clicked together in her head. “There are about three persons in all of Winterfell to even have access to the Maester’s archive. Let alone knowledge of the scroll.”

Margaery raised her eyebrows. “I will take a wild guess who is one of them.”

“You think Littlefinger has something to do with it.” She did not sound surprised. Or even like she still had to think about it.

“What? You don’t?” Margaery challenged. For how important she figured that piece of information Sansa did not even seem too fazed by it, if anything only mildly annoyed.  

“While certainly his way, knowing the cause does not solve the problem,” Sansa stated.

Margaery took a heavy breath, but it did not calm her as much as she hoped, even though the necessity to stay calm was painfully evident to her. In Margaery’s mind there was not a single doubt that this all was a carefully thought out plan by Lord Baelish. It was just the tiniest bit too much of a coincidence for Arya to be stumbling upon the single one “treacherous” piece of paper Sansa had written in her life, that happened to be in his possession. How could Sansa not see it? How could she not understand that Arya was not the real problem? That the danger came from somewhere else entirely.

The slight anger at Sansa’s lack of understanding disappeared when she took in the way she kept staring out the window and looked so incredibly young right then. And so very lost.

“Sometimes removing the cause can eliminate the problem,” Margaery stated in another attempt to let Sansa see where the real problem was. “When a fire is threatening to burn down your house you best eliminate it by the root, and then worry about the smaller ones it caused.”

“Not if those smaller ones pose the more immediate threat to your life,” Sansa returned.

 “You think your sister poses a threat to your life?”

Finally tearing her eyes away from the scenery outside, Sansa’s eyes met Margaery’s and she could see the desperation in them. It ached in Margaery’s chest to see Sansa quite so crestfallen and knowing that this time around she was partly at fault for that. If only she’d told her about the bloody scroll in the first place, if only she could find the courage in herself to do so now.

“I don’t know,” Sansa sighed. “I don’t want to, but you should have heard the way she spoke to me.”

At loss for any other way to give her comfort, Margaery pulled Sansa into her side so her head rested on her shoulder, while her hand drew soothing patterns on her back.

“I understand it,” Margaery said softly and pressed a kiss to the crown of Sansa’s head. “It’s overwhelming.”

Even though she nestled into the touch securely, Sansa shook her head. “You don’t understand it,” she disagreed softly. “Nobody does. Nobody can begin to understand how hurtful the accusation of being untrue to my own house and family is, after everything I have endured and survived to get Winterfell back.”

Margaery felt she did, at least partly. The pieces she learned about the fight for Winterfell, about Sansa and her brother’s retaking it of their home, were not particularly detailed or even complete, but she had enough imagination to fill the gaps of knowledge, and the prospect of having what she suspected confirmed quite honestly scared her.

“Oh sweet girl,” Margaery breathed and leaned her head against Sansa’s. “What I wouldn’t give to make all that burdens you disappear.”

Sansa slid her hand beneath Margaery’s and gave it a firm squeeze. “Do you remember the first time we saw each other?”

Margaery did not question the change of topic, but only smiled softly, figuring it was Sansa’s way to cope with all that was threatening to overwhelm her. The memory was in her mind as if it was yesterday. Down to the way Sansa wore her hair and the colour of her dress.

“I was standing in front of the iron throne, facing Joffrey. You were standing on the side lines. I remember seeing you and thinking that I had never seen anybody which quite such sad eyes. “

“It was one of my happiest moments in King’s Landing,” Sansa recounted. “He announced that you were to be his wife instead of me and I had never been as relieved in my life. All I could think was that the burden of Joffrey and all that came with marrying him would now be for you to bear.”

Her facial expression had clearly suggested something else back then, Margaery thought curiously. Perhaps Sansa was indeed and had always been better at pretending than she gave her credit for.

“It all seems like a different life, don’t you agree?” Margaery mused.

“There have been so many things that scared me about the prospect of having to marry Joffrey.”

Whether it was the way she did not respond to her light comment or the direness of her tone, Margaery could not quite figure out, but suddenly she realized that this was not the change of topic she had thought it was, had a clear idea of where this story was going and her stomach cramped. Margaery felt more than just a little afraid to hear about this.

Margaery lowered her eyes and her look landed on their joined hands. She felt the slightly tighter grip on her own, could feel the way Sansa’s hand almost trembled and it made her heart ache. This was not about whether she wanted to hear this story or if she was afraid to hear it. This was about Sansa talking about it despite her fear.

The hand that caressed Sansa’s back stilled altogether and she rested it on her shoulder to pull her tighter to herself. “Go on,” she prompted gently.

Sansa took a deep breath and then the words rushed out of her like she had been holding them back for the longest time. “All the things I had been afraid of about being married to Joffrey… Ramsay was a thousand times worse than my worst imagination.”

The silence that followed felt like it might last forever. Margaery drew in a heavy breath and her hand tightened around Sansa’s. Margaery knew better than to ask what exactly she meant by that. Joffrey was a vile, cruel excuse of a human being and Margaery would have lied if she’d said that she had not been worried about sharing a bed with him for the first time.

The image of the young girl with the sad face from King’s Landing appeared in her mind one more time. Despite everything she had been through even back then, she’d been so full of hope, so full of innocence and kindness. Margaery felt sick at the thought that someone had aimed to destroy that. The idea that someone hurt her was nearly unbearable, and Margaery swore if the bastard had not been dead already, she would have killed him with her bare hands.

Margaery shifted and brought the tiniest bit of distance between them. The need to see Sansa’s face and her eyes was overwhelming. She needed to see with her own eyes that she was all right. Her hands remained locked with Sansa’s as she searched eyes, her own blurry with a veil of tears. Blue eyes only hesitantly gazed up to meet hers, almost with a sense of shame.

“I’m so sorry that this happened to you,” Margaery finally pressed out, at loss for any other words.

It caught Margaery more than just a little by surprise when Sansa dove forward and pressed her lips against her own, and even though her initial instinct was to draw back, she felt the importance more than ever to let Sansa take the lead in this moment. The kiss was brief and finished with Sansa resting her forehead against Margaery’s only for a heartbeat, then she  retrack until they were only still joined at their hands.

“It’s not easy for me to speak about it,” Sansa admitted and lowered her eyes.

“You don’t have to,” Margaery offered, and realized with shame that this offer had quite possibly a lot more to do with herself than with Sansa. She straightened her posture and forced herself to breathe. “But I’m here if you want to.”

Sansa nodded slowly, her look now directed to their hands, she gave a small squeeze before she detangled herself from the hold and got to her feet. Margaery’s eyes followed her carefully as she took the few steps towards the table, gripping the wood of a chair’s backrest, and she withstood the urge to follow her, to comfort her and take her in her arms. Understood and accepted Sansa’s need for some distance in order to talk about this.

When Sansa began to talk her voice was quiet and calm. An all too detailed description of the dress she wore for the wedding ceremony opened her stagnant retelling, she spent the longest time describing not only details of the dress, but also of the ceremony itself. Who had been present, stood where, how many flares had lit the Gods Wood; it gave Margaery the dreadful impression of being right there and watching.

Sansa’s head lowered for a moment and her eyes closed when she started speaking about what had occurred afterwards, once she had been withdrawn with Ramsay and how the understanding of who he really was had hit her. Once again she was not sparse with details, so much so that Margaery wondered how on earth she had overcome something that remembered in such vast aspect.

The tears that had been collecting in Margaery’s eyes she did not allow to spill over, but instead focused on the fury and anger that she felt to an extent she had not known was possible to have for someone she never even met. Not only for the despicable creature that Ramsay Bolton was, but as well for Theon Greyjoy, who stood there, _just stood there_ and had done nothing.

With the concluding of that first night, movement returned to Sansa and only for a moment, when she sat back down next to her on the window sill Margaery was foolish enough to believe that this was it. Only when Sansa, with her hands balled tightly in her lap and her eyes trained forward, started speaking again after a shaky inhale, did Margaery comprehend that this had merely been the start of an even more horrible tale.

Where Sansa had seemed calm and collected before, now she almost overthrew herself as she talked. The sequence in which she talked about it, did not make sense a lot of the time. Her voice went from so quiet, it was hard to understand her to being laced with fury within one sentence. Not once though did she cry. Even when Margaery’s own eyes swam with tears.

It was like everything that Sansa had held back for the longest time boiled over and she started talking. She spoke about every little thing she had suffered under him. She did not spare Margaery any details, told her everything. The countless times that had followed that first night, where he had not only violated her, but tortured her, body and mind; where he had scarred her. Spoke all too extensively about the perverse joy he got out of exposing and overthrowing her innocence and inexperience, along with the games he had forced her to partake in.

In particularly horrible parts Margaery had her hands fisted up tightly, her nails digging into her palms painfully, just so she would not beg Sansa to please stop talking. It was impossible to hear all of this, but she understood that this was the first time Sansa ever spoke about what she had endured and however uncomfortable Margaery felt listening to it, how she felt was not important in this very second. It was not about her, it was about Sansa.

The sun was just past its highest point in the sky when Sansa concluded her retelling. By the end of it, the breaks between the fragments of her story became longer and it was almost as if she was too exhausted to speak. When a couple of minutes had passed after her words, she looked at Margaery through heavy eyes. The emotional exhaustion was visible on Sansa’s face; she did not endure Margaery’s look for long however and instead pushed herself to her feet. She walked to the table and poured herself a cup of wine, bringing it to her lips and returning the empty cup to the table.

Over her shoulder she looked at Margaery. “Not a particular pleasant story, I’m aware.”

Margaery shook her head and her voice was hoarse when she finally dared to speak again. “No, it’s not.”

Sansa nodded solemnly and focused her look forward one more time.

“Thank you for telling me.”

A look of surprise appeared on Sansa’s face as her head twisted towards Margaery and there was even the smallest hint of a smile.

“Thank you for listening,” she replied.

Margaery got to her feet and walked towards Sansa slowly, while she knew better than to treat Sansa any differently, there was still a hesitance within her that had not been there before. Not stepping on eggshells was only theoretically a simple concept, knowing what she knew now. In front of her she came to a stop and looked up into gorgeous blue eyes full of vulnerability.

“If it is all right with you, I’d very much like to hold you,” she declared as fingers interlaced already with her own.

“I’d like that,” Sansa returned with a smile that was nowhere near its full range, but getting there.

When her arms closed around Sansa, for once she did not care about keeping a safe distance between them, but simply held her in her arms, her head nuzzled into the soft skin of her neck, breathing her in and enjoying the way they seemed to fit almost perfectly into each other.

What Sansa had told her was still all too fresh in her mind and her thoughts were spinning in circles. While she was glad that Sansa had opened up to her, she could not help that there was also part of her that felt terrible. The fascination she had held for this “new” Sansa, for this Lady of Winterfell… Knowing what she knew now… it made her feel sick. Margaery had been aware that some experience Sansa gained along the way shaped her, she just simply had not thought it would be as horrific.

But was she honest with herself there? All the signs had been there. A girl like Sansa did not simply run away from her husband. Let alone start a war against him. What had Margaery thought the reason for that was? No, she had not given it any thought. Because she did not want to see it.

When Sansa pulled back and looked at her, Margaery’s heart for a moment felt so enwrapped in shame she struggled to not let it show on her face, but instead give Sansa an encouraging smile as she cupped her cheek gently.

That was another one of Sansa’s looks that was new to her; one that suggested she cherished her more than anything in the world, that indicated more trust than she had ever been, and especially was worthy of now. While any other time she would have adored to be on the receiving end of that soft expression Sansa’s eyes, Margaery had never wanted to sink into the ground more than she did right now.

She felt guilty.

Had it really taken her learning about the worst moments in Sansa’s live to get to this point? To understand that her own deceiving of Sansa had so much more dangerous potential than ruining only what had grown between them?

Sansa trusted her. Against all odds, and despite everything she had been through.

Going into it, leaning into that first kiss with Sansa, Margaery had known that there was a potential this would end painfully for her, and she had decided not to care. Now it seemed like that had been the most unfair decision she had ever made in relation to someone she cared about, because, yes, while she had had all the information diving into this, Sansa most definitely had not. She had taken that decision from her without truly considering what effect it would have on her.

And yet, despite realizing all that and understanding it… she did not think she had ever longed for Sansa more than in this very moment. Not because she was beautiful. Not because she was courageous. Not because she was smart. Not because of the fire that would occasionally spark in her eyes. But because of what was behind beyond all that, beyond the Lady of Winterfell mask. This gorgeous young woman who had been through hell and had re-surfaced kinder and stronger on the other side.

Everything about Sansa sparked something within Margaery that she thought she had left behind her a long time ago. Something she had not allowed herself, for so long, she wasn’t sure how she could now. She was not a selfless person, had never been, but for once in her life her own advantage was not what she considered or even concerned about. More so than losing her own safety out of her eyes, she had to worry what she might be doing to Sansa.

They did not live in a world or a time where what had grown between them could ever lead to something more than just this. They would never be able to make what they had official. It would forever only be this, stolen moments between the two of them behind closed doors.

She could not do that to Sansa.

This could end in anything but pain, and Sansa had had enough of that for three lifetimes. No, she wouldn’t be the reason to cause her more anguish. She had to put an end to it before it was too late. If it wasn’t already.

And even though that thought caused her almost physical pain, she knew it would be the right thing to do. For once in her life she had to do the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... please withhold of throwing objects! :)
> 
> And of course let me know what you think!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2:30am here. I just finished my final read-through and am so tired that I'm almost completley sure this is all just a pile of nonsense, but here we go anyway, hoping dearly that my tiredness tomorrow will be worth it.   
> And with my attempt to make it bed at a decent hour this Sunday out the window - I give you: chapter fourteen. Enjoy! :)

Moving on and going back to normal after speaking about the lowest moments of her life was all but easy. Stripping her soul and clarifying why Arya suggesting that she was a threat to her family, her house, to Winterfell when she had passed through hell to get where they were now, opened a vulnerability within Sansa that she had never allowed with anybody. And even if it was Margaery, whom she trusted more than she had trusted anyone in a long time, it still left a nasty taste in her mouth, one that a jug of wine she had chased down her throat had not been capable of wiping out.

Making herself vulnerable to somebody, when for years and years, keeping her sincere notions to herself had been her one and only weapon, felt almost ludicrous. Like she’d made a colossal mistake.

The way Margaery looked at her did not help. Of course it was a normal reaction she should have been foreseen, but more than anything, Sansa wished that there was a way Margaery could know her entire story and not stare at her so tormented. It was her burden to bear, not Margaery’s. It was her pain, her memories, she didn’t want Margaery to be as upset as she seemed. She hated that telling her had eliminated any of the looks Margaery had given her through the last days. Perhaps not eliminated. But certainly changed. She still looked at her with devotion, still permitted her sweet smiles, but underneath was that all-embracing sense that she felt her as fragile.

Sansa longed to scream at her that she should stop that. That she was still the same person from this morning who’d pulled her into an alcove and kissed her in bright daylight. That Margaery of all people should not ask before she embraced her. That she should not stumble in her words or consider how to speak with her. She was still the same woman. Just because she talked about it eventually, did not mean it had altered her. Yes, it had been hurtful to talk about it, but those wounds, the ones on her mind and body, had healed a long while ago. She had not told Margaery because she required her to be more careful or compassionate with her, but because she had wanted her to understand. To be as able to share as much as Margaery had.

Hadn’t it been Margaery who’d suggested that nothing should change between them solely a couple of days ago? That they should always know how to speak to each other, to be friends, despite everything that might arise between them. Did that not likewise go for everything that had happened to them?

It was disheartening, and yet Sansa felt she could not address it, didn’t have it in herself to confront Margaery about this, it was as if she’d used up all the spirit she had in herself telling about Ramsay. Had not the strength, she felt, to break off another quarrel today. Hoped instead that Margaery would figure it out on her own. She was so good and natural at reading her and what she desired, Sansa just had to trust this was something she’d gather on her own.

She broke off the hold Margaery had on her after not too long, felt she might dissolve if she had to look at that gorgeous face up close a moment longer and knowing that Margaery would not lean in to kiss her, or touch her like she’d done before. So instead Sansa forced a brave smile on her face, one that was so familiar to her by now it almost felt like part of herself, and released Margaery’s hands.

“I ought to get some work finished,” she announced. “Will you move with me to the Solar? If the offer still stands I’d still very much like your support on that record for winter preparation.”

Margaery looked bewildered for a moment, and anew with that fragment of apprehension that had only developed this afternoon, and yet Sansa already detested. “Are you confident, you are up for working?”

 “More than ever,” Sansa nodded adamantly. “And between walking through the glass gardens and arguing with my sister, I’m afraid the load has merely multiplied.”

Margaery pressed her lips together as if she yet wanted to object, and because Sansa did not need to debate this with her right now and whether or not it was something she should do, she did not stand by for her reply, but spun on her heel and only gave Margaery an expectant look over her shoulder in leading towards the door.

“Sansa.”

Margaery calling after her had her stop in her steps and spin around. She looked into anxious eyes, saw the way hands kneed the cloth of her shawl nervously, saw the way Margaery’s lips opened, but no sounds came past them, which prompted her to return her an inquiring glance.

“Yes?”

Hesitance was scrawled all over Margaery’s face and posture.

“I…,” an unsteady breath followed, then she shook her head with a forced smile. “If you’re positive you want to work, I’d be glad to help.”

“I am,” Sansa confirmed, angling away from eyes that seized her up like she’d break down in a moment’s notice.

Work would do her good, she knew.  It always had. Keeping her mind busy and occupied would not only serve with pictures that were still haunting through the background of her mind, but also help her focus her concerns regarding Arya, and what to do after that argument with her.

Even when one would think her to be taken up with whatever she was working on, writing was always her best moments to let her mind flow freely and collect and arrange her thoughts. Especially regarding how complicated matters had become with her sister, that was what she needed right then to figure out what to do.

Having and hearing Margaery’s opinion had been important, but it was still herself who’d have to come up with a result and a strategy to handle with it. She did not want to believe Arya would establish true of her threat to reveal that godforsaken scroll to the northern lords, but what you hoped for was not the best adviser. If Arya was serious, all she had striven for was at compromise. The Lords could pull their support, Jon could lose his army, and that with the worst winter the world had ever experienced. It would not take much to have that herd of sheep follow whatever was the most convenient; they’d done it countless occasions before. Turning with the most suitable mood, like bloody wind vanes.

Sometimes Sansa felt she was the only one who understood on what fragile feet their reign in the North stood. Maybe because she’d known how deluding a comfortable security could be. She could merely hope that Arya was intelligent enough to see and recognise that too. If she didn’t, then Sansa would have to make her see and understand it. If this was all a careful scheme set up by Littlefinger as Margaery had suggested, then they needed to be in unity more than ever.

She would not get around having to seek a conversation with Arya again and determine if she meant what she’d thrown in her face today. If she didn’t, good; Sansa could understand things said in anger, they were a family, they would be prepared to see past that. If she did… well that was a bridge she’d cross when she would get to it. But she would not catch Sansa off guard again, that was for certain. Not expect to share a memory from their childhood only to have accusations of being responsible for their father’s death thrown in her face a moment later.

“What is feral lining?”

She blinked from the letter to Lord Glover up at Margaery, who was frowning at a letter in her hand.

They were sitting on opposite sides of her desk, both equipped with a quill, sharing the ink cup between them.

“Fur from wild boars. They do not make the best winter wardrobes, but are excellent for lining walls, help keep the cold out.”

Margaery nodded in slow perception and sighed. “And knowing that gives that whole letter a distinctive different meaning.”

“You should have asked earlier then,” Sansa chided gently.

Again Margaery nodded, as she dipped the tip of the quill into the ink, and directed her eyes back on the report she was composing. “Yes, well, I’m not particularly good at admitting shortcomings of the academic kind.”

For a moment Sansa had to remind herself that it was Margaery sitting there in front of her. Her face looked so tense, she appeared not even like herself anymore, more so as if she had aged years within just half a day. She looked tired and strained. If this had to do with what they had been speaking about, than Sansa cursed herself for ever opening her mouth.

It shouldn’t have startled her that it shocked Margaery, not even herself as shocked to the core as she was. There was a reason she’d never spoken about what Ramsay had done to her in such grand detail before. It was not a cheerful anecdote; more so like something straight out of a nightmare, but bloody hell she’d hoped if anybody could handle the truth – the full truth – then Margaery could.

Or maybe she had not considered at all, and that was the true issue here. Her mind was not working rationally around Margaery and to the bigger part she loved that. Had never felt as daring and as brave like she had with her around. She felt so courageous around her, Margaery radiated a safety and comfort to her that drove her to think like nothing could ever come between them. Because she cared for her so deeply, because they trusted each other. But perhaps she had overestimated the bond they shared, maybe she had been selfish to place quite so much on Margaery.

If it would take the frown off of Margaery’s face and bring back that crooked smile and that deep craving in her eyes from this morning, Sansa thought she could have lived very well without Margaery ever learning anything about her past.

That he ruined this, even from beyond the grave… he’d said he’d always be a part of her, and for the first time since his death, she worried he might have not been entirely wrong. Let all of him fade and disappear, what he’d done to her would never be reversed.

Maybe that was the reason for Margaery’s sudden reluctance. Maybe it was more than just sympathy and concern… perhaps she regarded her… tainted? Broken beyond redemption? Wasn’t that something he had once told her when—

Sansa shook her head adamantly and focused back on her writing.

No, she ordered herself. He would not get to do that, he would not get to play mind games even when he was dead. What he had done had not defined her then, and it sure as hell would not now.

“No…?… as in you don’t know either?”

Sansa blinked up startled and was met with eyes laden with confusion. Had she been talking out loud?

For a second she considered overplaying her distraction, but those watchful look coming from Margaery told her that she had no chance but to concede to it. “I’m sorry, my thoughts were someplace else,” she apologised. “You were saying?”

Margaery’s eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head, the quill in her hand dropped as she relaxed her grip on it. “Don’t go there,” she said then softly and Sansa felt truly caught. “That line between your brows is rarely ever a signal for constructive thoughts. Whatever was just on your mind… let go of it.”

Margaery’s hand reached out and her thumb smoothed over her knuckles lightly.

For just this moment Sansa decided that she did not mind the compassion in Margaery’s eyes, just this time she could allow it. The simple and firm, almost commanding, way that she spoke to her gave her a shiver of hope that maybe not everything had changed indefinitely.

There was yet the possibility that the reluctance she felt had more to do with her own turmoil of emotions than Margaery seeing her differently. Perhaps it were her own stirred up emotions that made her feel a certain restlessness radiating off Margaery. It would not be the first occasion that had confused her own feelings with hers, alone this time it were negative sentiments that still were blurring her mind.

That leap of faith in Margaery went beyond just sharing fears and memories. She had to trust in her also that she could handle it. Had to grant her the time, had to grant them the time, to adjust.

“It’s not always that simple,” she countered with a wistful smile. In a virtually inevitable movement, her hand turned around, and she curved her fingers into Margaery’s.

“Simple is for the weak,” Margaery shot back, her smile almost, just almost though, carried the same brightness it had before, though it still did not arrive at her eyes.

Sansa nodded and studied their joined hands.

“May there be moments in your life, where your present is not tarnished by the past, and no future concern keeps you from enjoying,” Sansa recited almost solemnly, her eyes focused on a hand intertwined with her own. “So you solely are; without wanting, with no need, only feeling yourself; in this very moment.”

She let the verse decay and for a note there was silence between them, one that appeared almost sacred. When she hesitantly lifted her gaze again and for that moment all she recognised on Margaery’s face was love, honest and plain.

“I might have reread that verse a couple of times,” she declared then, bidding an answer to a question that was never asked.

Margaery raised their tied hands and brought Sansa’s knuckles to her lips, putting a delicate kiss to them. Sansa felt so very reassured by the gesture, for once she could neglect the gradually returning sorrow in Margaery’s eyes. Her lips lingered, and feeling that her warm breath against her cool knuckles it was practically like if nothing had happened between them sitting here right now and this morning.

“For a minute there I’d thought I was growing forgetful before my time not being able to locate that book.”

Pressing a final kiss to her knuckles, Margaery brought their hands back to the table, opening her hold and drawing over the lines inside Sansa’s palm, brushing finger tips along every of her fingers, thus rounding to the heel of her hand and whirling on her wrist. Sansa felt so mesmerised by the feeling this touch stirred in her and the reassurance it granted, her eyes fell closed for a moment and she released a content breath.

Only when her ministrations stopped and Sansa opened her eyes again founding Margaery looking at her with still a decent measure of hesitation. “How are you Sansa?” Mild eyes bore into her and probed for something. Signs of discomfort, overwhelm, perhaps even fear, but also true devotion. “I imagine talking about everything couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t,” Sansa acknowledged, and a heavy exhale later continued. “Just… can I ask you to … not treat me … differently?”

Margaery studied her calmly, her face giving away that while she wished nothing more than to grant Sansa that wish... It was not all that simple.

“I’m not made of glass,” Sansa continued. “What he did was awful, and I’d give everything to erase it from my mind once and for all, but I’m not some weak, fragile damsel because of it.”

A shaky smile crossed Margaery’s face. “I know that you aren’t.”

Then stop looking at me like that!

Sansa would not produce the words past her lips, was not brave enough for that after all. She did not have it in herself to talk to Margaery that way, to confront her. Too great was the worry it could scare her away, have her even more distant than she already was. All she could do was hope she understood what she meant and what needed.

“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” Sansa concluded. “With all he took from me, he doesn’t deserve of prevailing even in words.”

Even though Margaery looked even more attentive than before, she followed Sansa’s request, leaned back and directed her eyes back on the sheet of paper in front of her.

Sansa could not help catch the way her shoulders still seemed the slightest bit tense, even as she was endeavouring normality. But maybe that was the best approach. Maybe they needed to pretend that everything was normal for a while until it would be again. Like closing your eyes pretending to be asleep until you finally fell asleep.

“If you’d be so kind Lady Stark, and before I lose another hour writing false conclusions: What in the world are chitlins?”

“It’s a pig’s intestine,” Sansa said and allowed a growing teasing grin on her face. “Don’t they teach kids in the south anything?”

Margaery glared up at her from her writing. “My education did not consist of any facts about pig guts. And I’ll be forever grateful for that.”

Ending the sentence on the letter, Sansa looked up with interest. “What did your education consist of?”

Without looking up Margaery shrugged as fingers drew over written words she struggled to produce sense of. “Nothing spectacular I’m afraid. Stitching, painting, singing, languages.”

The last one got Sansa’s attention. “You speak other languages?”

“Speaking would be exaggerated,” Margaery stated. “They taught me High Valyrian. My parents considered it would be useful for some reason.” She paused and searched her memory, bringing words forward only one after the other, struggling with the pronunciation. “Līrinon skori vestrā nasty udra.”

Sansa looked at her with admiration; every time she felt she knew this woman she came around with a new surprise. “What does it mean?”

Margaery blinked.  “I genuinely don’t remember.”

The chuckle that escaped Sansa felt divine after the heaviness that this day had brought along, the only thing that made it even better was that Margaery allowed herself a gentle laugh.

“Five years of studying well spent I know.”

“It’s fair to say languages were not you’re forte,” Sansa allowed.

“None of it was my forte,” Margaery corrected. “The singing, the drawing, the stitching… Not that I was not good at it, it just bored me pretty quickly. It all came easy to me, but doing anything because someone told me to, and not because I chose to do it? No, that never sat right with me.”

Sansa could almost imagine it. A little girl with brown curls, glaring at a tutor with crossed arms and a defiant face.

“I reckon your grandmother must have cared for that attitude.”

“I expect she understood it,” Margaery mused. “Not that she was delighted with it, but she discovered alternative means to impart education on me, and bring my limited attention span to new purpose.”

Sansa drew up her eyebrows. “And even though she did not teach you what chitlins are.”

Margaery nodded and made a face. “She would have denied it to her death, but I expect even Olenna Tyrell had her gaps in knowledge.”

Sansa nodded with a small smile as she settled her mind back to the letter she was writing. She felt comforted with the normality of their conversation, not alone that it was still feasible but likewise because it had taken her mind of everything and if it was merely for a view brief minutes.

This routine returning to them made all feel lighter. For the rest of the afternoon they did not speakeoften, but both silently occupied with the work in front of them. From time to time Sansa would peer up, stretch her neck and besides the smile Margaery offered her then - the same kind Sansa found herself on the receiving side of for the whole afternoon; forced, and not reaching her eyes, lacking the common charm and brilliance, and nevertheless so rich of warmth -  she discovered herself surprised how much work they had gotten finished, and she was glad she had accepted Margaery’s offer to help her, even better so since the questions that periodically came from her carried a definite source of amusement for Sansa.

Later, when the light had become too weak to pursue their work, and after the meek bites of dinner they had both forced themselves to have, as they sat in Sansa’s chamber by the fire both nursing a cup of hot spiced wine the heaviness from before returned and seemed to absorb them whole. Sansa wrote it off to the exhaustion they both understood, but it was in a sense revealing that neither of them even brought up the possibility of a nightly stroll. It was the first time in over a week they broke with this part of their routine. It was in a way unceasing, and in another way yet offered a curious contentment that even though they were both hanging on darker thoughts, they were not alone while doing so.

Only Margaery’s new hesitancy when it came to anything that went beyond holding her hand, yet disappointed Sansa. Were there had been countless tender kisses and sweet caresses the night before as they sat by the fire, now there was solely the occasional reaching out for the other’s hand. Where with bidding good night there had been a perfect streak of kisses against her lips that neither of them had been capable of drawing out of, now all she was granted was an all too terse and chaste kiss before Margaery withdrew to her own chamber.

But through it all, Sansa fell into bed that night feeling so drained not even her still circling thoughts had the power to hold her awake longer than a couple of seconds after her head rested on the pillow.

Only that her thoughts were raging on even after she’d fallen asleep.

When she opened her eyes again and took in her surroundings, it took her a moment to gather where she was. It was dark around her, only the light from the fireplace still providing an imprecise indication she was in her own chamber, in her bed.  She was sitting up, supported on her hands; her heart was pounding in her chest like mad, her breath came in laboured waves from her lungs and her entire body was trembling. Vague visions of a dream – no, a nightmare – that had brought her into this state, were still on the brink of her mind, but already too far out of reach to make sense, entirely the terror and the misery she could yet recall.

It could have not been more than a couple of seconds between her waking in this wretched state and the adjacent door opening, where Margaery stood, illuminated by the light of a lone candle in her hands.

The sight of her in that moment appeared as consoling to Sansa as if the Mother herself had materialized to her rescue.

She was by her side in a heartbeat and as she sat down on the edge of the bed, arms were already enclosing her shaking form and tugging her into the warmth of her protecting embrace, setting a tender kiss against her temple.

Sansa was still trapped somewhere in the all very slow fading horror of her nightmare and simply faded into the embrace and let herself be swayed as hands drew soothingly over her hair.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” was the first thing Sansa rasped out when the ability to speak finally came back to her. It had been a while since she’d woken quite this unsettled, she must have screamed in her sleep, for Margaery to be so prompt at her side; it was even longer that this had happened to her.

Margaery’s cheek was tightly pressed against her own and she quietly maintained the easy swaying movement she had them in, merely halted once Sansa’s thumping heart had tamed down and the trembling had stopped. Then she drew away a couple of inches to study at Sansa’s face and to smooth back a strand of hair that had loosened from her braid.

“That must have been quite the nightmare,” she concluded, her eyes searching Sansa’s in the faint light.

“I don’t remember it,” Sansa breathed out, even while the feeling of it was still deeply rooted in her breast.

Margaery hummed softly, and her fingers kept drawing through Sansa’s hair. “Those are the worst ones,” she said then, pulling Sansa back into her side. “It’s tough to rationalise what you can’t recall.”

Sansa nodded, perceiving that the words were true, but could not muster a proper reply.

It should not have been surprising that after all that she evoked yesterday, she woke up like this and ultimately it seemed like taking five steps backward, to a point she assumed she had left behind and would not come back to. Yes, she still had nightmares, but for a long time not like this. Not to this degree that she was anxious to close her eyes again because she could awake another time feeling so thoroughly petrified.

So much for her goal she was done thinking about it, that it was in the past, she had survived it, she had spoken about it, maybe now was the chance to let go of it. That had turned out to be a tad too idealistic.

Now more than ever, Sansa felt drained to the bone, exhaustion so heavy in her she had a hard time holding her eyes open, and still the concept of going back to sleep scared her. No matter how noble her conviction to let go of it all once and for all, that appeared only theoretically like a reachable concept. Closing her eyes for sure would not help with that, but bring along unwanted images.

She hated feeling like this, longed for nothing more than this sense of panic and despair to just disappear again, wanted it to all be gone once and for all; did not wish to be the girl who was broken and traumatised, anymore.

She clasped her eyes shut, eager for the notion to go away, nestled herself deeper into Margaery’s strong hold, buried her face firmly against the crook of her neck and inhaled that comforting scent of hers. It soothed the swirling ocean of her feelings enough to catch a clear thought.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” The plea escaped her lips nearly desperately and was murmured against Margaery’s skin.

The hand that stroked through her hair didn’t halt, and for only a moment Sansa wondered if Margaery had even heard her.

“If that’s what you want.”

Sansa drew away to glance into Margaery’s face, meeting the deep sympathy in her eyes.

She nodded her head then. The same peculiar blend of insecurity and hesitance, courage and determination within herself, that only Margaery managed to provoke.

“I just…” she struggled to find the precise words, felt at a loss of how to explain it to her. How could she reveal it that tonight it was her who was frightened of the dark? Who required to feel safe and predicted that was alone feasible if Margaery was at an arm’s length from her.

In the end she didn’t need to say it at all. Margaery had understood effortlessly. As usual.

If Margaery held any hesitation, it faded away in a flash and her knuckles brushed over Sansa’s cheek reassuringly as she nodded.

In the end she was as hopeless at forgoing one of Sansa’s wishes as she was with Margaery.

With a little nudge to Sansa’s side, she encouraged her to create space for her and moved beneath the sheets to her left swiftly. They both settled down on their sides facing each other and the position felt instantly so simple, as if they’d never done something else all their lives. Their hands entwined in the narrow spot between them, making Sansa feel safer than having a full battalion of guards standing outside her door. She felt that as long as Margaery was with her, nobody would ever harm her again.

It was odd because she had not shared a bed with anyone since her childhood, and yet it felt as natural as breathing. With Margaery that was to be expected, nothing was ever particularly difficult to achieve with her around, no matter how nervous Sansa was about it earlier. The hint of agitation she’d felt about sharing a bed with her, as little as it had been to begin with, shifted into a deep grasp of intimacy almost instantly. There was still some remaining shyness, but masked out by the sheer unbelievable adoration she felt for this woman.

“I’m glad that you are here,” Sansa said and knew Margaery understood that she was talking about a lot more than just tonight.

“So am I,” Margaery returned without missing a beat.

The candle Margaery had carried along with her stood almost forgotten on the night table and dropped the chamber in a light that was just enough for her to make out Margaery’s features. With her own anxiety lessened, Sansa only then wondered if Margaery was all right in this dimness surrounding them. 

“Is the light sufficient?” Sansa asked. “Or is it too dark?”

“It’s all right,” Margaery assured her with a small smile that implied she adored that Sansa worried for her when she was the one who’d just awoken and was still upset from a nightmare. Her eyes darted over Sansa’s face for a moment. “My concern is more with you, sweet girl.”

Sansa’s eyes fixated on her fingers interlaced with Margaery’s. In the limited light, in the security that Margaery emitted, it suddenly felt very easy to be genuine, not just with her, but likewise with herself.

“I’m scared,” she admitted quietly.

Margaery’s eyes took her in full of sadness; she looked like the thought of Sansa being frightened of anything was inducing her physical pain.

“Scared of what?”

“All of it,” Sansa whispered, her voice almost breaking. After a weighty breath she sought to put it into words. “What took place with Arya today and what could grow from it… Talking about- “she could not bring herself to say his name, seemed like it might harm this moment “-him, has me dealing fears I expected I had left behind a long time ago.” Her eyes flashed up to find Margaery’s. “I’m scared that you’ll never look at me again without that grief and concern, that you’ll never be ready to see past what I told you today. And I’m scared that you might not want me anymore because of it.”

There was a sheer brokenness that surfaced in Margaery’s expression and for a short note, Sansa understood it as a testimony of her worst fear, alone when lips softly pressed against her own, she comprehended the true meaning behind it and her thoughts threatening to move into a tail spin came to an unexpected and smooth halt. With a sigh she scooted closer to Margaery, leaning into the kiss and revelled in it more than any other they had shared before. If only for the relief it brought along that surged through Sansa like hot water poured into a cooling bath.

The two heartbeats it lasted where enough to eliminate all doubts of Sansa’s mind.

“I care so deeply for you Sansa,” Margaery’s voice was as rough with emotion as Sansa had ever heard it. “The last thing I will ever want is to cause you pain.”

It felt so ludicrous to hear her say that. Since she’d known her, Margaery had never aroused anything even remotely like pain. In the enormous variety of feelings that Margaery had stirred in her, the closest she’d gotten to anything negative was uncertainty, maybe at worst anger, but never pain.

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

Margaery offered a sad smile in turn and stiffened her grip on Sansa’s hand. Contemplating eyes flitted over Sansa’s face and for a small stretch it looked like she wanted to add something, but she hesitated, her lips opened and closed, once, twice, thus the smile slid back in place.

“Perhaps we should sleep,” she proposed. “I imagine you must be tired.”

Sansa was almost certain that these were not the phrases originally on Margaery’s mind, but she did not ask her about it. Not every thought required to be expressed the moment it passed through your mind. Margaery would speak the words once she was ready, and if she wouldn’t, Sansa could also reside with that. As long as Margaery still looked at her with such longing, she knew there was nothing to be unsettled about.

“I am.” With only the tiniest bit of hesitancy she blinked and smiled at Margaery shyly. “Would it be all right… and if not, that is also fine, but I’d like it if…,” she drew a calming breath admits all her stuttering. “Will you hold me?”

Without giving her an answer, Margaery turned onto her back and stretched out her right arm for her in an encouraging gesture. Sansa moved into her arms as if they’d done this on countless occasions before. She propped her head on Margaery’s shoulder, sinking her face halfway into the juncture of her neck, her eyes drifted shut on their own accord as she breathed in the scent of her, and gentle fingers started to draw through her hair.

The next morning when the light of the rising sun stirred her awake Sansa blinked the remaining sleep from her eyes, a smile appeared on her lips. Awakening was as agreeable as falling asleep, no resemblance to the violent disruption of her sleep during the night.  The first thing she saw was Margaery, although no longer next to her, but bundled up in a blanket sitting on the window sill and looking outside.

As if she was feeling her gaze on her, it did not take long for Margaery to angle her head towards her, merely the hint of a smile showing on her lips when she addressed her. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

Sansa tucked a hand beneath her chin, snuggled her body into the warmth of the covers and couldn’t help the smile that extended over her face as she quietly took in Margaery’s. The comfort Margaery’s present had brought her last night was still rooted inside her securely.

Any other day, Sansa was not someone who loitered around in bed after having woken up. Her feet were regularly out on the floor before the rooster’s first call. The times were she remained in bed, stared up at the ceiling, allowing herself to dream about this and that, were behind her for some time, but this morning she obliged herself an exception, as all felt slower than regular, but in the best sense.

“You look well rested,” Margaery noted with a sense of content in her tone.

“I am,” she affirmed, crushing up the blankets, so she hugged them to herself, rejoicing in the strength that rolled through her, like it only did after a thorough sleep.  “What about you? I hope nothing I did chased you out of bed.”

She hoped that she had done nothing that had kept Margaery from sleeping. She felt the slightest bit disappointed that after falling asleep in Margaery’s arms, she’d been refused also waking up in them, but wouldn’t let herself dwell on that, as she was sure it was only a matter of time before she would get another chance.

Margaery shook her head and brought the blanket around herself tighter. “No, I slept well. I have been awake for a while and I did not want to risk waking you.” Yet another time that loving, warm look showed in her eyes. “You looked so very peaceful.”

In the first moments of looking at her, with her own strong sense of content, Sansa had not caught it, but now she could recognize how the solidly planted smile on Margaery’s face that held no true joy, but almost seemed forced; tinted with misery.

How Margaery’s look then dragged away from her and directed back outside, did little too sooth Sansa’s thoughts.

She tolerated the suspicion and the fear power over herself for purely a brief moment, then she thought of the loving looks Margaery had lavished her with last night, the safe way in which she had held her and the comforting touches that had grazed her. She knew those were real, felt it deep within herself.

The millions looks of affection that Margaery had offered her over the last couple of days appeared before her inner eye.

Yet she could not help with the sense of reluctance that still filled her; wanted to address this change in Margaery’s behaviour, but once also had no idea how to.

Sitting up in bed, Sansa drew her knees to herself and slung her arms around them, the side of her face resting on top as she continued studying at Margaery. She had her back propped against the wall, her feet tucked beneath herself and was so enwrapped in the blanket that her white nightgown wasn’t visible at all. Her hair floated in messy waves around her shoulders, and Sansa noticed for the first time how long it had grown ever since Margaery had reached Winterfell. What she could see of her expression showed nothing of what she was thinking, was neutral, thoughtful.

It was not like Sansa minded silence itself. She realized there were people who needed sound and talk to flourish, but that had never been the case for her. Quite the contrary, she liked not having to comment every little thought she encountered. She was very easily able to remain alone with her thoughts. She pitied those who could not do so, it took a particular kind of fools who spoke their every thought.

Sitting like this in silence was not unique for them, Margaery’s presence always appeared with a grasp of calmness, whether she spoke about something with passion, or remained quiet, but silence was something reserved for their evenings more than their mornings. Normally their mornings were packed with lots of talk, whether it be soft banter, debate about arrangements for the day or any other trivial matters on their mind. Particularly, Margaery seemed to be at her most talkative state right after she’d woken up.

Unlike the day before, Sansa felt calm and properly rested enough to not jump to any conclusions right away. Only a couple of hours had passed since Margaery had consoled her insecurities and worries, and it was absurd that anything had transpired between then and now to make her change her mind.

Instead she settled on just addressing the out of ordinary behaviour.

“Is there something troubling you?”

Margaery blinked as she twisted her head towards Sansa and looked the tiniest bit startled and there was a mournful regret cast over her features unlike Sansa had ever seen it before. The shaky breath she took only added to the strain of that moment.

Sansa tightened her arms around her knees and ignored the apprehension that Margaery’s behaviour caused, obliged herself to stay calm, and recalled Margaery’s consoling words from last night, her comforting touches, the soft kiss, the secure way she’d held her. She knew all of that had been earnest. Whatever concerns clouded over Margaery’s mind, had nothing to do with both of them.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” she pledged.

Margaery’s smile was wry, and she nodded. “For the past hours, I’ve been sitting here, struggling to come up with what to say and how to say it,” Margaery voice was steady, but quieter than normal. “I have been racking my head to find the proper words, explanations and excuses that might prevail what we have; and preserve you from hating me.”

The retort that she could never hate her, was on the tip of her tongue, but would not make it past her lips. She knew better than to make promises she could not stay true to. Never say never, was more than just a banal figure of speech.  Sure the perception of hating Margaery seemed impossible, but what if that was a lack of imagination, than a fact?

Margaery’s head dipped back against the wall and she trained her eyes to the ceiling, it sounded like she was thinking out loud instead of addressing Sansa. “But perhaps words to redeem me do not exist.”

She had not the slightest idea where Margaery could possibly go with this. Though, since she had soothed her concerns last night, had caused her such great relief, that there was nothing still that could come between them now.

“You frighten me,” Sansa admitted quietly.

In an odd sequence, despite how Margaery’s eyes settled back on her almost lazily simultaneously they seemed to spill over with more feels than Sansa could count or name. She held her gaze for a point, as if she struggled to memorise Sansa’s face, as if she would be gone in a moment and she craved to hold on to the vision of her for as long as viable.

“I have been incredibly selfish allowing to have things progress in the course they did,” Margaery then eventually went on.

The collected way Margaery said the words, Sansa could tell that she had not just thought of them, but that they had formed in her mind for some while and Sansa slung her arms around herself even more securely, just to have something to hold on to. It was like Margaery was yanking the ground away from her and no matter how much she tried to escape it, an inevitable abyss seemed to come closer and closer.

“What _things_?” Sansa forced the question past her lips, just as she forced herself to continue looking at Margaery. “You mean between us? Do you regret that?”

Was that it? Did Margaery not want her after all? Maybe even considered what had transpired between them a mistake?  

The movement that came to Margaery’s body caught Sansa by surprise. Bare feet slid from beneath the blanket and planted on the floor as she straightened her posture angling her whole body towards Sansa and looking at her.

“I don’t regret a second,” Margaery promised firmly. “I care for you more, than for anybody ever before. Whatever happens from here on out, I need you to know that.”

The relief that came with that promise did not last long. If it was not second thoughts, or that she did not want her, then what? Why was she so upset? She looked almost terrified. What could be so dreadful that she was sure Sansa would hate her for it? Whatever it was, Sansa felt that the truth could barely be worse than her imagination running wild and building the worst scenarios in her mind.

“Only… because I care about you so much, we cannot continue like this. You have been through so much Sansa, and even while I know that you are strong and brave… I cannot be the one to cause you more pain.”

“What makes you think you of all people could cause me pain?”

“Sweet girl, we don’t live in a time or world were this kind of affection can ever end in anything else.”

Her voice sounded so very full of sorrow it broke Sansa’s heart, and yet she let what she’d said sink in for a couple of seconds. Was that really what it was? Was Margaery afraid of hurting her? Maybe of being hurt herself? She clearly remembered the story about the one time Margaery had allowed herself to have feelings for someone. And how it had ended in anguish and heartbreak. Was that the reason why she was trying to take steps back now? To protect herself? To protect her?

It was not as if Sansa was not scared as well. Part of her was terrified even. But the much bigger part, was too intrigued for what could happen between them, what was possible, to care. She could not just let Margaery pull back. Not just like that. Not out of fear. She had spent so many years in fear, she certainly would not let it ruin something so potentially great.

“I don’t care about that,” Sansa replied firmly.

“Then you are a fool,” Margaery sighed, but even the insult sounded affectionate coming from her.

“I don’t care,” she repeated firmly her eyes never leaving Margaery’s.

Drawing back the covers Sansa slipped out of bed then and crossed the short distance to the window. In front of Margaery she came to a hold, considered solely for a moment, before dropping to her knees before Margaery, ignoring the cold that seeped through her nightgown, alike the fearfulness in soft eyes focused on her. She urged up the couple of inches needed to meet Margaery’s lips, her hands on either side of her face holding her from getting away.

“Part of me doesn’t care either,” Margaery breathed against her lips in a tone that almost sounded on the verge of tears. She drew back enough to look Sansa in the eye. “And because I should know better, because I know better, I’m afraid that makes me just about the worst person in the world.”

Sansa shook her head and drew her hands over Margaery’s face lovingly. “You are the kindest, most wonderful, nicest person in the world.”

Despite her words being sincere, Margaery’s face contorted as if she they pained her.

“There is something I need to tell you,” she opened and concealed her insecurity with a meagre smile. “Only I have no sense how.”

“Then don’t,” the words were past Sansa’s lips before she could consider them.

Margaery tilted her head and threw her a sorrowful, softly berating look. “Sansa…”

Sansa just shook her head and stifled the tears that wanted to ascend to her eyes. “If it’s as terrible as the expression of your face suggests, then I don’t think I need to know.”

It was foolish of course, and a proposal made out of fear, but if whatever Margaery wanted to explain her had the potential of altering anything between them, then perhaps she didn’t need to know, perhaps for once the truth didn’t matter. Didn’t get Sansa a voice in whether she chose to find out something that would affect her?

For only a tiny moment Margaery looked like she was considering the way out that Sansa offered her, a distressed look in her eyes. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is,” she said eventually with a shake of her head, her tone shaky.

Sansa breathed, struggling to collect her wits and think rationally again, simply she didn’t altogether achieve, found them still crippled with dread. In a fresh wave of desperation she pushed forward again and pressed her lips against Margaery’s.

For the first time, Margaery did not readily melt into the kiss, but was reluctant, her lips almost rigid as if she only endured Sansa’s touch. Still, Sansa did not allow her to pull back, maintained their lips firmly against each other, wishing that she would see that nothing in the world, not fear, no revelation, or knowing better could be important enough to put _this_ at compromise.

She breathed a gasp of relief and smiled against Margaery’s lips when finally after what seemed like an eternity she felt lips moving against her own. Even then Sansa didn’t allow Margaery to pull back after the usual time they had become accustomed to. It was not enough anymore. Had not been for quite some while, but especially right now.

Her fingers moved into Margaery’s hair and idly, almost experimentally, she deepened their kiss. Cautiously separated her lips a slight in the midst of it and her tongue darted out ever so hesitantly until it met Margaery’s still closed lips and ran along them, and it seemed like she’d torn through the last of Margaery’s resolve.

Hands emerged from beneath the blanket and cupped her face, she descended into the kiss, opening her lips as well and met Sansa’s tongue with her own and Sansa thought she’d lose herself in this sensation forever. Felt a pleasant pull in her lower stomach every time the tips of tongues met tentatively. It was more than she had ever known before. This kind of craving. This closeness. What only such a little touch could produce.

Nothing in the world could be worth forgoing this.

At first she took no note of the hands encircling her wrists, still all too enraptured in lips that explored new spheres of what was achievable. When she noticed the light tug they gave, she gave into it, letting Margaery guide her hands from her face without giving it much attention.

Only Margaery tearing herself from her lips with a heavy exhale, had her thinking clearly enough again to recognise that they had lowered their joined hands to Margaery’s stomach.

“I’m so sorry,” Margaery breathed out heavily, as her head sank forward and her forehead rested against Sansa’s.

It took Sansa a moment to return from the high that the kiss had flared within her. She was still a little out of breath and wanted to tell her that whatever it was didn’t matter, dive in for another kiss, that was until she saw the nervousness and apprehension in Margaery’s eyes, preparation for the worst in them, like … this was it, this was what she was so terrified of.

Only Sansa did not grasp what it was. She did not recognize what Margaery was apologising for, merely blinked in confusion.

The small laugh that escaped Margaery in that moment was not melodic as usual, trembling and brassy, with the slightest portion of frustration. 

Margaery’s look tore itself away from Sansa and trained downwards, to where their hands were still joined on her stomach.

On the _swell_ of her stomach.

Sansa’s mouth opened, a thousand questions in her mind, but not a sole word passed her lips.

Her eyes wandered between Margaery’s paled face and her midsection, in the obscure expectation that any of this would make sense, but all that prevailed her mind was bewilderment.

Her head hurt as she struggled to force sense, and a dizziness overcame her that had Margaery’s remorseful face swimming before her eyes. 

When she eventually allowed it all to come together in her head, she drew her hands away so fast as if it scalded her skin touching Margaery even a moment longer and sunk back onto her heels.

The realisation struck her so heavily; it was like somebody had emptied a bucket of ice water over her head and still she could not believe it.

Because how could that be?

She must have misunderstood something here, had landed on incorrect conclusion.

It was absurd.

There could be no way, how Margaery could have concealed something so crucial from her. _Margaery_ would not have kept this from her.

She would have known of this if it was true; would have recognized it. 

She would have noticed it.

They had seen each other every day for the last month, there was absolutely no way.

And with how close they had been...

The more Sansa wracked her brain for an answer, the more reasons she came up with why this could just not be true, the more and more distinct became the – on second look not all that soft, but quite obvious - rise of Margaery’s womb, until it was the mere thing she could still focus on until the sole question in her mind remained was how she had been so blind not to see it?

“You’re pregnant,” Sansa said stupidly, unnecessarily, and even with her speaking the terms out loud hoping the significance behind it would reach her conscious, she did not know what to think about this new segment of knowledge. Numb mostly, had anybody asked her; not feeling much, but perplexity. Only that, not a particular negative or positive sentiment connected to it.

“I am,” Margaery confirmed, then tension from before faded from her face, in its place only what looked like sincere shame and maybe even a hint of relief. “I’m so sorry, Sansa.”

Foolishly all that Sansa managed was a nod.

She was still seeking for something within herself, any kind of backlash that represented how she received this news and repeatedly she turned up hollow. Was only wrapped up yet in that aghast bewilderment, something she studied even with a hint of curiosity. She was never abundant with her emotions, but any other day damn well knew if she felt good or bad about something.

“How…?”

How, what? How could you have kept this from me? How did you keep this from me? How could you do this to me? How am I supposed to react to this?

The larger part of Sansa wanted to just to disappear from this moment, not have to deal with it. Get away from Margaery within this second, get to the fresh air and stare into distance from the highest point of Winterfell. Better, yet ride to the Wolf’s Wood, feel the crisp air and the strain of her muscles until it would force her into feeling something. Anything.

Only she did not have it in herself, to just rush to her feet, throw on clothes, scatter out of the room and leave Margaery sitting here with that pathetic expression on her face all by herself.

Sansa shifted and felt her muscles stiff after remaining in the same position for so long, only noticed now how tense her whole body was. She got to her feet feeling Margaery’s sad guilt-ridden eyes follow her every movement.

For a moment she remained in front of her, uncertain what to do next, whether to sit down next to Margaery, or bring as much distance between them as she could. Margaery’s eyes were filled with tears as she peered up at her, her face quietly begging her to say something, anything.

“It’s a lot to wrap my head around,” Sansa told her then cautiously raising her shoulders.

Margaery’s hands had moved from her stomach and were now tightly clutched in her lap. “I know,” she agreed with a nod. “Even for myself still.”

 “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Margaery’s posture slumped further, and she sighed. “Because I am an idiot,” she forced out seeming frustrated with herself, with glistening eyes she blinked up at Sansa. “And because I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“So many things,” Margaery shook her head the tiniest bit. “Your reaction, mostly. The wrong people learning about it. My own feelings towards this child.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “How do you feel about it?”

The way Margaery almost immediately shrugged seemed almost perplexing. She did not look what Sansa imagined a happy mother-to-be looked like. Her face was harsher than she ever seen it, a sense of that she could not stand how she felt, what she felt for this child.

“They say a mother loves their child, even before they are born. I feel… indifferent at best.”

If indifference was the best thought that Margaery could find in herself for this child, Sansa did not dare to ask what the worst was.

“It is Tommen’s?”

To that Margaery only nodded silently.

A Lannister… considering that Sansa almost understood Margaery’s conflicted feelings towards what was growing inside her. Giving life to a Lannister when her entire family, and almost herself, had died at the hands of them had to be impossible.

“I know I made a mistake not telling you sooner.”

Margaery’s hands reached out and held onto her own tightly, and for a moment she studied those hands that she had learned to love so very much, not only over the last couple of days, but even before that. The tight and comforting hold they had offered more than once, the soft finger tips that drew pattern over her palm, fingernails that scraped across the nape her neck during a kiss. Wished one of them would cup her face like so many times before, or grasp her waist in that slightly possessive way that she loved so very much—

Only… those hands had not been on her waist out of endearment, but as a way to deceive her. To keep her from discovering… all of this.

A sequence of images flashed before her inner eye.

The way Margaery always wore that shawl around her frame, even in heated chambers. The way her fingers always draped it tight around herself.

The way she constantly seemed to be mindful to have a couple of inches between them, even in their most intimate moments.

How she always stuck to those same three shapeless dresses even though Sansa had equipped her with a wonderful selection.

Margaery had just not made a mistake.

She had made the conscious decision to deceive her every day for weeks.

Maybe she had not exactly been lying, but she had withheld crucial information, and had gone out of her way to do so. No matter what the reasons, it all came down to the dire fact that she had chosen to delude her over telling the truth.

The first hint of an emotion pushed itself into Sansa’s chest with that realization.

It made her angry.

All of those smart and ever so eloquent words, when she had spoken to her, whether it was about Littlefinger, about Arya… about them and what had transpired between them, did she not have to revaluate the worth of every single one of them in light of this new information?

“Yes you did,” Sansa’s voice was pointed and her chin raised, as she masked the pain she felt in the only way she knew how to.

In a completely irrational way, she was even more angry for Margaery finally telling her than keeping the truth from her. It still felt not fair that Margaery simply made this decision for the both of them. Had told her despite that Sansa had asked her not to. Not when she had been the one to change the status quo between them in the first place. She had been the one to kiss her first. To open this door. Just like she had now resolved to unburden her conscious, not caring it ripped the floor from beneath Sansa.

Lastly anger was a far more easy-care feeling than pain or sorrow, because it kept you going, and for now all Sansa knew was that she needed to keep going somehow. The way she felt for Margaery was still rooted so deeply within her, if she’d allowed the hurt that this revelation caused within her to come to the forefront of her mind too much, she wouldn’t know how to even continue breathing.

“I wanted to tell you countless times,” Margaery vowed with a shake of her head. “I have regretted nothing more than not being truthful from the start.”

Again those grand words… that felt just terribly empty. It didn’t matter if she regretted it. She had not been honest.

Sansa felt her jaw clench and she freed herself of Margaery’s hold twisting away from her. “I find regret is a useless concept…” she bit out then, taking a couple of steps in the other direction, before she turned back around. “It’s just like pleading forgiveness. Only words … and certainly doesn’t change the wrong that was done.”

Margaery nodded with a tight expression. “I know it doesn’t.”

They remained there silently staring at each other, seizing the other up, both in the self-created dungeon of their thoughts and unable to flee from it, or to help each other out of it.

With a heavy breath Sansa tore her eyes away from Margaery and moved to her vanity where her dress lay neatly draped over the chair. Her hands grasped the material tightly as she watched through the mirror how movement only slowly came back to Margaery, she got to her feet and plucked the almost forgotten blanket off the windowsill, taking a moment to folding it up and placing it at the foot end of Sansa’s bed.

Then she stood there in the middle of the room for a moment, unsure what to do.

Don’t ask if I want help with my hair, she thought then. They can hold me accountable for my actions if you ask that.

“Perhaps, it would be best if you remained here today,” Sansa’s words were slow and held sharpness she had not intended, had not even realised she felt to this extent. “I need time to think.”

And that would be impossible to accomplish if Margaery kept watching her with those tormented eyes.

Margaery swallowed, could have not looked more broken if Sansa had slapped her across the face, but nodded nonetheless. “Of course.”

That Margaery accepted Sansa’s request without a word of discussion had her feel a deep sense of relief, but that was gone as quickly as it had appeared. It helped only a little in a situation where she did not perceive what to feel first.

She felt robbed of everything good in her life.

A day ago, no, not even an hour ago when she had just woken up, she had felt on top of the world, felt courageous and strong. Now she felt she did not have the strength to put on her dress. Wanted nothing more than to crawl back to bed and close her eyes. Felt every insecurity, every fear, every burden that Margaery’s presence had taken from her had suddenly returned to her, and she felt unable to face any of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it was not quite the angst-fest that some of you predicted? Curious to hear what you think, especially what your thoughts are on where the girls will go from here!


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommened music for this one, merely because it was all I listend to while writing:  
> The Journey - Mattia Virgilio  
> [youtube]watch?v=UYPOZ5Gt0Mk  
> (without lyrics so easy to play on the side)

For the first three days, something Margaery’s spirit had prevailed. She had forced herself to get out of bed in the morning, dress herself properly, and occupy herself throughout the day with reading and craftwork. She had not liked it, but continued anyway, even when the books in her hands had oftener been staring at words of which she could not produce sense of, had forgotten the start of a sentence by the time she made it to the end. Her embroidering was sloppy at best, at worst a waste of material. And yet she had pushed herself to do it, ordered her eyes to keep on reading, compelled her fingers to continue their activity, because all was better than sitting around, waiting for a knock on her door that just wouldn’t come.

It was merely the belief it would come eventually that kept Margaery going. It was what brought her to still put her gown on the morning of the fourth day alike, when for the remains of the time she’d settle on top of her blankets and stare at the wall with a headache so excruciating it made every movement and every thought unpleasant.

A week went by and solely the housemaid who served her meals ever turned up in her chamber.

The goodwill of the girl was more than Margaery felt she could take. More than she deserved. And while every other day she had shared cordial words with her, she could not bring herself to further than thanking her in brief terms.

The lethargy and the pounding inside her skull grew equally. The headache was a comfort in a measure, because it became so much the forefront of her mind that she had no strength for regretful thoughts about what she had done anymore.

Or of how much she missed Sansa.

Margaery had not known it was possible to miss someone so much.

She had not realised how much affect Sansa had on her whole existence until she had disappeared from it.

She missed Sansa. Deeply. She missed her voice. She missed her smile. She missed her touch. She missed talking to her. She missed their nightly walks and their nightly conversations over a glass of wine. She even missed those endless musings about the logistics behind Winterfell that Sansa tended to fall into.

If she didn’t know better, she would have guessed Sansa had departed from Winterfell altogether. Margaery could not even be assured she still slept in her chamber. If she did, she took off in the early hours of the day and did not return until far into the night.

After the morning when they had talked, when Margaery had brought herself to be honest with her at last, she had not seen Sansa for the rest of the day. Then, Margaery had been disheartened, but she had predicted in a measure. It was entirely reasonable that Sansa desired space, and Margaery had figured it would serve her good as well. Help her arrange her thoughts.

Then the next morning she had entered Sansa’s chamber at the customary hour, only to discover Sansa already gone. She had recognized Sansa could have left long ago. A scent of her had remained in the air, the sole hint she had been in the room at all, the sheets of the bed carried a diminishing warmth. She had gone back twice since that day, seeking for signs she was yet around. Once she spotted it an emptied cup that had been left on the table. The other time a tousled cloth on her vanity.

For the longest while she had taken Sansa’s presence, perhaps not for granted, but certainly had not appreciated it like she should have. Had she realized it would feel like this to forgo her company, she would have never opened her mouth. Would have accepted Sansa’s appeal when she declared she did not require to know.

Margaery did not consider for a moment she had been misguided to confess to Sansa. Felt telling her was one of the limited proper decisions she had made throughout her life. Only her timing had been all but superb. Ripping Sansa from that content, tranquil smile she had woken with. But what alternatives had she had? After everything that Sansa had entrusted in her the previous day, she had owed her sincerity. Delaying at this stage would have made all a hundred times worse.

Not that Margaery genuinely thought it could get any poorer than this.

But perhaps better to make a painful end than drag out the agony?

They could not come back from it, it seemed she had never seen something so certain in her life.  But was that not what she had wanted? To bring an end to it while they still could. To open a prospect for Sansa for something else. Someone else. Someone who would not deceive her; not hurt her.

Not truly.

That plan had left her head as rapidly as it had developed. And the night that had followed had only reinforced that understanding, the awareness that she was too selfish to ever resist the wonderfulness that Sansa Stark was. It was why she had not spoken up right away. Why she had faltered and waited until the next morning. Waking up with Sansa nestled in her arms, Margaery had had to been foolish enough for that one peaceful moment to think that perhaps she could explain herself without anything changing between them.

The relief she had felt the moment after telling Sansa had maintained for a solid minute, and then Sansa had stared at her in that manner, that had Margaery realising how much she had broken. How wrong she had done by her.

The concept that Sansa felt merely half as dreadful as she did was perhaps the worst. It was unbearable. She had meant what she said. Had been so resolved not wanting to hurt her. Did not want to be the person that induced her pain. And finally she had brought about just that.

The plain aspiration to do the honourable thing had not been enough. Too little, too late.

She didn’t know how they could ever come back from that. Even if Sansa found it in herself to condone her actions, she would not be prepared to forget this breach of trust.

Maybe that was what frustrated her the most. Even if Sansa showed up to talk to her, right in this instance, what could she say to her? Sansa had been right, no words, no excuses, not the biggest regret altered anything. She could not provide anything that would reverse what she had done to her. To them.

Perhaps it was for the best that Sansa was avoiding her like she was.

The misery Margaery suffered was not alone justified, but perhaps could even carry a sliver of atonement for her that she could not reach in any other form.

She could not entirely establish anymore what ached more, her mind or her body, and if the one was provoked by the other.

Everything felt heavy. Her limbs seemed to be filled with lead, her back ached, her head throbbed, her stomach seemed more weighty than ever before. Whether if it was to change, to wash down a few meagre bites of a meal, to open the window screens in the feign hope to have the chilling air get her mind awake or when the kicks inside her became so unpleasant that she could not suffer laying down for another second. The few times Margaery got herself to stand up during the day, she got dizzy.

Perhaps it had been the diversion before, but it appeared like the child inside of her had never been more active than within the last week. Like it was sensing the negative thoughts she harboured for it and was battling them from within her.

She knew better than to hate the child. It had not even been born, did not choose to be delivered into a world by a mother who could not recover a single positive thought for it, who’d give everything to have it disappear.

It was not its fault to be brought into this life at all. That had been all her. To imagine that there was a time when she’d hoped desperately to finally conceive seemed something out of another woman’s life. But it was what had happened. For the longest time it had been her ambition to cement her stand with the birth of an heir. She had no one to blame but herself that she was in the position she was now. In a way again, it felt like corrective justice. Only unfortunately at the cost of an innocent child she was not sure she would ever care for.

In a measure, she pitied it already. Its life would have been so profoundly different in other circumstances. Should have been different. She speculated about that from time to time. Was there an alternative life where she could have been delighted to discover she was pregnant? Looked forward to having this babe even? What if she’d recognized her pregnancy before? Before the day of Cersei’s trial, before the Sept of Baelor, before the Wildfire. Would it have formed a difference in the course events had panned out? Or would it have given Cersei even better reason to get her out of the way as soon as possible?

It did not matter. Wondering about what ifs did not make a difference.

No, she could not fault the child. She had many chances to be truthful with Sansa before and had not spoken up. She had been so close once and then had thought she could use this child somehow to her advantage. Had been foolish, ambitious, arrogant. Overplayed her card. Lord Baelish’s one and only goal was Sansa, not whatever prospect a not even born yet heir to the throne could grant him. One that was strictly speaking not even rightful as its father had never been.

What would she give for not being in this position in the first place? The possibilities that there were o for her and Sansa to delve into seemed eternal. If she was the reason that Sansa would never trust anyone again, then there was no atonement for her. None at all.

Only the prospects remained of what could have blossomed between them without all this. Especially considering what she learned about Sansa’s past… to be the one to show Sansa how wonderful love, physical love in particular, could be, to bring her to the other side from that black abyss in her life. It would have been divine, she had no doubt about that. Had been previously. Because how pure and brave had Sansa’s boldness been considering all she had been through?

A tap on the door stirred her from her drowsy thoughts. She brought herself up to sit up on the edge of the bed only slowly. The time of the day indicated that it was not the maid, and despite that miserable taste of anticipation in her that it might finally be Sansa coming to see her, she did not believe it anymore, not honestly. Thought she even identified it from the way of knocking. All it left her to do what pray that it was not Lord Baelish, as she perceived that not alone would he be capable to see something was off, but she likewise carried not the stamina any kind of exchange with him drew from her.

Brienne turning up in the doorway brought a mild curiosity to her, for about two heartbeats, merely the strained look on her face and the fact she sought her out in the first place dimmed that out. In the almost three months she was at Winterfell, Brienne had not come to see her or spoken to her in private once. They had talked and been friendly, but had not shared a private conversation that extended beyond pleasantries. It made Margaery nervous that Brienne felt the need for that now.

“What a delightful surprise,” Margaery spoke anyway in greeting and stood up to look at her. The smile she managed felt tense, almost like a grimace.

Facing her Margaery saw something like regard shining in her eyes and that made her conscious of her appearance almost uncomfortably and see herself through someone else’s eyes. Her eyes swollen from too much sleep, her hair unkempt, her dresses rumpled. Not a state that Margaery Tyrell would have been caught in under any other circumstances.  Her grandmother would climb out of her grave and slap her silly if she could see her now. Call her stupid letting herself go this much over regret and lovelornness.

Brienne, being one of the most decent people that Margaery knew, of course went on not mentioning, or even letting her concerned surprise show for longer than a very brief moment.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” Brienne offered then. “I would not impose on you if it wasn’t important.”

“Certainly, Brienne.” Margaery nodded and signalled for Brienne to take a seat, ignoring her own uneasiness at the term important. This could alone concern Sansa, Brienne would not have another reason to approach her.

“How are you feeling, milady?” Brienne asked. “The Lady Sansa mentioned you were feeling under the weather?”

It should not have startled her so much that Sansa had to come up with an excuse on her absence. For a week they had been attached by the hip, going everywhere together, now Margaery had perished altogether. That had to rise questions.

The realisation ached. Not only had she left them both on their own, she had also led Sansa to lie on her behalf.

“I have been better,” Margaery conceded warily, sitting back down on the side of the bed.

It was no use feigning otherwise, her discomfort was written into her face, even if it was not purely physical discomfort, like Brienne assumed.

“How is Sansa?” The query was out of Margaery’s mouth before she had considered it.

She was dying to know. In all her own discomfort it was that image of the despair in Sansa’s eyes that persisted beyond the brokenness she had looked at her with. That upset her the most. She craved to learn how she was doing, if she was holding up all right, or if perhaps she felt as miserable as she was, which of course would merely add to how awful she felt.

Solely so far she had not been able to ask anybody.

Irritation showed in Brienne’s features, and maybe a hint of comprehension.

“Thoughtful,” she responded eventually. “But very busy and as determined as usually.”

The first sincere smile in days found its course to Margaery’s lips.

Yes, that was her girl. Sansa was not one to sit around and weep, but worked through her misery, distracted herself from it.

“That determination is why I am here,” Brienne went on. “I was hoping for your support.”

So there was something going on. And if it worried Brienne into asking her for support, Margaery knew there was a reason to worry. Still she felt she owed it to Brienne to be honest regarding her capacity to influence anything that concerned Sansa.

“I’m not confident how much support I can be, but please tell me.”

The child in her stomach was moving, and without greater thought or consideration she brushed a palm over her abdomen, as it was the entire thing that seemed to soothe the movements down a little. Even once she realised what she was doing, she did not cease. Sansa knew, and with Brienne, she saw no reason for further secrecy, could be assured of her discretion without having to say a word. Brienne’s eyes spotted the gesture. She found Margaery’s eyes in mute bewilderment, to which she only returned a short grimace, that let her understand she was seeing accurately, but also signified that she did not wish to discuss it. 

The stunned expression survived only a second longer before she moved on. “The Lady Sansa wants to send me away.”

At that Margaery was confused. It was not what she had predicted. She held a slight comfort that there was no direct probable harm to Sansa like she had dreaded. Still sending her personal life guard away sounded like a strange choice.

“Send you where?”

“Cersei has requested a parley in King’s Landing and I am to participate as a delegate of House Stark.”

For a flash, Margaery assumed she had misheard. Cersei ordering out a parley seemed as absurd as the sun rising in the West. Sounded like such an evident ambush that she marvelled if it perhaps Cersei had surrendered her talent for subtleness. Either way, it would be certainly Cersei’s style. Rounding up all of her opponents in the same place… did that not sound all extremely familiar? Margaery felt her skin itch, held for a moment the desperation she had suffered at the time she had realised that Cersei had towed them all into a massive trap.

“It concerns you what might transpire in King’s Landing?”

Brienne shook her head. “It’s not myself I’m worried for.”

Now Margaery recognized her true burden. Brienne perceived her absence as a threat to Sansa’s safety. And probably rightfully so. And she could see why. Brienne was the one devoted person that Sansa had in Winterfell. The one person who’s loyalty she could always be sure of, whom she could count on.

No, whom she still counted on.

“You are concerned for Sansa,” Margaery concluded.

Of course she was. Between Lord Baelish, Arya Stark, and the increasing discontent of the Lords, Sansa needed Brienne now more than ever.

“I assumed that maybe you could speak with her. That maybe she’d listen to you.”

A week ago she might have stood a chance. Even though Sansa was never particularly docile to her advice, she did hear her out and factor it into her decisions.

Now however?

When she had seen as little of a glimpse of her in a whole week? When the last time they’d spoke she’d looked at her with nothing but resentment and hurt? When she’d vowed herself that she’d give Sansa all the time and distance she would require? When she felt apprehensive about how to even address her?

Yet there could merely be one answer.

“I will try.”

She’d have to try.

After Brienne left, she took a moment making herself more presentable. If she was facing Sansa, if she broke the pledge she had made to give her space, then she would not show up there looking like a picture of misery, because that would not be fair to Sansa. Yes, Margaery was miserable, but that was her burden to carry. If Sansa was ever to absolve her, then not because she felt sorry for the sad appearance that Margaery presented.

She scrubbed her face with ice cold water, provided her hair with a few much needed brushes, changed the wrinkled outer garment for a fresh one, concluded by pinching her cheeks to create some colour on her pale face and threw her favourite green shawl around herself. By the end of it she did not look particularly vibrant, but not quite so ill anymore.

Her steps grew from resolved to reluctant to impossibly slow on her course to the Solar. The sense of discontent and relief came to her in equal parts when she discovered it vacant. Disappointment because at this time of the day it was certainly rare for Sansa to not be at her desk working, something she could not help feel had everything to do with further avoiding her. And relief, well, because it meant that it delayed the moment where beautiful blue eyes would look at her with disappointment and pain for another couple of minutes.

The places where Sansa could be were easily assessable, and Margaery strode on with a little more boldness, passing through every one. Starting from the balustrade of Winterfell’s exterior wall, to the gallery overseeing the courtyard, all the way to the armoury and the store room, where eventually the pantler offered her the information that he had seen her go into the Sept earlier.

And that was where she found her, in the faintly lit sept with dozens of candles gleaming around her, sitting on a bench and looking straight ahead, her back facing Margaery.

Margaery understood why she was here and it solely added to the remorse she felt. Sansa was hoping for refuge, expecting that no one would enter to disturb here expecting her to be in prayer. Was this where she had spent the time she had not been working the last days? Did she remain here until late into the night, staring at the sculptures of the seven and ponder how wrong Margaery had done by her?

The moment was perfectly silent and peaceful, and Margaery hated that she was the one who would disrupt it. Her slow steps echoed on the floor and when she got close enough it was what prompted Sansa to turn around.

Looking into her face felt like she had not seen her in years, had almost forgotten how incredibly beautiful she was, her recollection and mental picture of her face not coming close to the actual image.

In the first moment that Sansa swung around, there was something like surprise, alike pain evident in her eyes. A sadness so profound it made her look tragically gorgeous. It only prevailed for the duration of a heartbeat until it was replaced by the all too mundane and not less graceful, but inaccessible Lady of Winterfell mask.

Margaery cleared her throat, hoping her voice would not be as overwhelmed with emotion as she felt. She continued approaching her in gradual steps as if any rash movements could drive Sansa away like an alarmed animal. “I’m very sorry to disturb you. Do you have a moment?”

Sansa’s chin raised and her eyes took in Margaery in an unyielding way, her whole posture tense with reluctance for her presence. She seized her up, her look lingering on her midsection for a moment longer, before charging back up to her face.

 “I was really just about to leave,” Sansa returned with a shake of her head, her pose shifting, bracing herself to rise.

She understood Sansa’s repugnance to talk to her, had predicted it, and it was not like she could not blame her, but assumed that perhaps demonstrating that she was not here to appeal for absolution or speak about anything that involved what had happened, it would bring Sansa to suspend her desire to get away from her. She needed to speak with her, and it would be better to carry that out here, in a setting that held a certain peacefulness, instead of rushing after her through Winterfell, where all kind of wanted ears could wait for them.

“Brienne came to see me this afternoon,” Margaery opened then. “She is concerned.”

With those words, the reluctance radiating from Sansa lessened a little. Margaery had guessed right, it had been fear she had not come here to talk about _them_ that had her so ready to storm out. Upon the reference to Brienne, her expression lost some of its intensity, merely to be followed by a certain exasperation.

“I discussed this topic with Brienne at length this morning,” Sansa stated matter-of-factly and lifted her eyebrows. “And frankly I do not resolve to perceive why she understood the need to involve you. This is none of your business.”

“Perhaps not primarily,” Margaery allowed with a nod. “But it is Brienne’s, who chose to involve me.”

Piercing blue eyes observed her every movement as she sat down on the bench. She was to Sansa’s left, their position was the reverse to the last time they had been here, a night a couple of weeks ago that might as easily have happened in a different life. Margaery was attentive to allow a secure distance between them, as she angled herself towards Sansa.

“Why send Brienne away?” Margaery urged on.

Being here, seeing Sansa, took more energy from her than she had foreseen, so considerable that her sole ambition to push this debate along and to have it behind her as quickly as possible. Yes, she had missed Sansa’s presence, immensely, but being looked at by the one person you cherished more than anyone else in the world with such hostility was not something she required to last a moment longer than absolutely necessary.

 “Because I count on her to represent the North in my best interest.” Her tone was detached, like she had those words prepared, like they were not even her own. 

Margaery could merely shake her head at something that appeared like madness. “It’s not safe,” she insisted sternly, even when Sansa’s face implied that this was not a cause she’d succeed in.  

“Brienne knows Jaime Lannister well. She is carrying the blade that was given to her by him.” Sansa’s hand flexed tightly in her lap, her tone again lacking empathy, the words more rattled out as if she was delivering a poem she had never wished to memorise in the first place and had to recite on too many occasions already. “I don’t expect she will be in any danger with him there present there.”

No, Margaery thought, you are smarter than counting on a Lannister; to place trust in a Lannister over someone you value as highly as Brienne.

In her own eyes Jaime Lannister was only marginally better than his sister. Perhaps he was not as outright as vile as Cersei, but not an ounce less dangerous when it came to his own advantage and succession.

In the end, it was never about Jaime Lannister’s integrity. This was not why Brienne did not want to go, and it was likewise not why she was here, something she felt Sansa knew exceedingly well, but for whatever reason she was stalling.

“I was not suggesting that it is not safe for Brienne,” Margaery returned patiently despite her increasing irritation with Sansa’s remarkable absence of stronger judgement. “She doesn’t want to go because she’s concerned for you.”

And so am I.

It did not seem appropriate to deliver those words, not within her right, not when she had persuaded Sansa to hear her out by implying that this conversation was not about them, so she swallowed them.

“I’m not a child. I’m very capable of staying on my own.” Sansa’s expression remained unimpressed by her words, as did her judgement. “I have reliable men looking after me.”

Margaery had to ball up her hands to a fist to control herself from reaching out to touch Sansa, to take her hand in her own, like she had done on so many other occasions when she had needed to underline a critical argument.

“Are they as honourable and trustworthy as Brienne?”

In a means of habit, she drew her shawl tighter around herself as she talked. Sansa’s look landing consciously on what her hands where doing, seeking to conceal, made Margaery sink them to her lap, the shawl falling loosely over her shoulders then.

“Hardly anybody is.”

The look Sansa offered her with these words went through and through like an elaborate punch to the gut. One she deserved, but that pained her yet as it passed as a remembrance of just how much she had shattered. She ordered herself to remain unfaced by the words, keeping herself on track, her face neutral as she went on.

“Which is why you should reconsider,” Margaery insisted, her eyes pleading her to hear her, to see beyond the damage she had caused and to understand that she simply wished to do right by her.

Sansa gave a terse shake of her head. “And send whom instead?” She challenged.

That silenced Margaery for a moment. Sansa did not require to add why she did not contemplate going herself. It would be ludicrous for her to return to a place where she was kept captive for years on her own volition. Any alternatives where indeed slim when considering more carefully. Sending one of the northern lords would ask for unneeded trouble, but likewise not provide the greatest diplomacy. The same went for Arya Stark. Perhaps she could send Lord Baelish, only that would not be a representation of House Stark but purely of the interests that Petyr Baelish considered relevant. Bran Stark was the last valuable candidate but excluded by his physical impairment. Yes, neglecting the hazard to Sansa’s security that sending Brienne away posed, she was the most suitable candidate.

“Not a lot of eligible contenders I know,” Sansa noted to her silent pondering, a definite finality in her tone, like this exchange had come to a finish.

“Then ignore the invitation,” Margaery requested, providing an ultimate solution. “Your brother will be there, and nobody will present the interests of your house better than him.”

The brief look that flashed over Sansa’s face hinted that she was not too assured of that, then her expression recovered its resolve. “Brienne will go, and that’s final.” Her eyes darted to Margaery, holding growing annoyance. “Are we finished here? Believe it or not I have further things to do than listening to advice I never asked for.”

Margaery’s lips sealed tightly at the sharpness of her tone. She could not imagine being struck would have hurt any less.

It was feasible that she deserved every word and every harsh look that Sansa seized her with, but she could not let that stop herself from at least trying to change her mind. Sansa had every right not wanting to hear her out, but this appeared too critical too just ignore what she perceived as such a menace for her. Accepting Sansa’s desire for distance, was one thing she owed her, but did she not also owe it to her to make her try to see what was right?

“Sansa I realize that this coming from is perhaps the worst constellation right now,” she granted as she went on. “But I'm begging you to not let that cloud your judgement. You know I'm right about this.”

If Sansa felt anything at her words, she concealed it. She lifted her head and faced forward for a point, then her eyes went back to Margaery with only blank indifference in them.

“No,” she returned directly. “I genuinely don’t.”

Of course she didn’t, she thought defeated. Not anymore.

Margaery nodded. As her eyes drew to Sansa, she took in her grace for that fleeting moment, a beauty so elaborate it prevailed even through the harshness she looked at her with.

“Sweet girl.” She exhaled the words which were more a notion expressed out loud than anything she had ever meant them for Sansa’s ears. She formed them out of thoughtlessness, out of habit, out of her almost unbelievable love for this girl; but also out of sorrow. They echoed between the barren walls of the Sept like the tongue of a bell, heavily swinging back and forth. Sansa’s eyes gave away the first hint of yearning in that moment, an indication she missed her, even while her jaw clenched and her face hardened in a way Margaery had not thought possible.

This was her last chance, she understood. If she ever had a chance of changing Sansa’s mind then it was now, when she finally something other than stoic indifference seemed to drift into her conscious. Perhaps her walls were lowered just enough to hear Margaery.

“I beg you to reconsider,” Margaery breathed out with a sway of her head, her tone was gentle, but adamant. “Brienne is much more valuable here than she would ever be in King’s Landing.”

Something in Sansa’s resolve shattered in that minute. Her eyes softened, her posture lost some its tension. The hands that had been tightened in her lap loosened its clutch. Still she shook her head almost imperceptible crushing Margaery’s feign hope that she had gotten through to her.

“You don’t get to do that,” Sansa said, despite the low volume, her words sharp like a blade, but also harbouring an aching brokenness. “You do not get to waltz in here and try to give me advice I did not ask you for, try to persuade me like nothing ever happened.”

Did she think she didn’t realize that? Did she truly see her so cruel to impose on her if she did not deem it necessary? It was not like this was exactly a bed of roses for her. Being so close to Sansa, while never having her further out of her reach, tore at her substance. Only this was more pressing than what she was feeling. Perhaps what they both were feeling.

“I don’t think I could have lived with myself if I had not at least tried.”

The words were heartfelt, still as soon as they hit Sansa’s face she understood that they were just the wrong thing to say.

“Couldn’t have live with yourself?” Sansa laughed a humourless laugh and shook her head. “Forgive me but you seem to be capable to live with quite a lot.”

“I know you’re angry,” Margaery acknowledged, putting no judgement or even accusation in her tone, just recognition and acceptance.

“I’m furious!” Sansa’s voiced echoed through the sept loud and harsh. Not once since Margaery had known her had she heard Sansa raise her tone to anyone. “So terribly I can hardly stand to look at you.”

Margaery did not let the words too close to herself. Sansa’s resentment was expected, and furthermore – justified. If she ever desired to earn her forgiveness, she needed to be prepared to bear with a lot more than this. She forced herself to take a deep breath. She could not relent not now.

“And I respect that,” she yielded.

Sansa looked at her in the same way she had on that morning a week ago. Like what she had done had wrecked everything beyond repair, beyond redemption. That nothing would ever be the same. Like she had wiped out all, Sansa had so very much cared for.

“No, you do not,” Sansa said then, quieter this time, calmer, merely sounding broken as she went to her feet and straightened out her skirt. “Or you would not be here. Do us both the favour and don’t act like respect for me has anything to do with this.”

She gave Margaery a final unwavering look before she shifted away, ready to strive off. Margaery did not allow the desperation that wrap around her throat like a hand strangling her to overwhelm her, just like she resolved not allow the tears ascend to her eyes. She did not get to cry. This was her fault. She did not get to lavish in self-pity.

“I promise not to bother you a moment longer if you hear me out.” Margaery pushed herself to her feet, her eyes urgingly on Sansa. Focusing her mind on why she had sought her out in the first place was the one thought she could yet work out because thinking about anything else could very easily destroy her. “You must know that I would not be here if I did not believe it important. Please don’t send Brienne away. With all that has been progressing, would it not be essential to have Brienne around now more than ever before?”

Don’t send the one person I know will look after you when I can’t.

Sansa stared at her for a lengthy moment. Her expression was strained, but for the first time in this conversation Margaery sensed that she was genuinely considering her words, even when she ended up shaking her head.

“I have made my decision.”

There was a finality in her voice, dismissal plain and simple, and she spun around towards the exit. This conversation was over. She was beyond her ability to still endure looking at her or listening to her.

Margaery watched the door open and close, remained just where she was, breathing a shaky breath, as tears soared to her eyes that she managed to keep at bay to not pour over her face. She had failed. She had failed no one as she had Sansa.

A small eternity passed until she urged movement into her feet. As she shoved the heavy door open, the courtyard was as lively as ever. Despite that her own world had come to a flaring stop, the world around her had not, because it never did.

The light seemed too bright for this hour in the afternoon, glared her for a moment. So much she did not right away see that Sansa had not made it as far away as she assumed she would, going by the pace in which she had strut outside. The reason for that became apparent to Margaery a moment thereafter. Evidently she had been unlucky enough to bump into Lord Baelish.

Not her best day surely, Margaery thought direly. To move from the tension that their conversation had held instantly into whatever he palavered her with, all while holding a fairly amiable face, had to cost her more strength than Margaery still had.

Sansa’s eyes discovered her in the same instance she considered if she could make it past them without being seen. Now in the bright light, she recognized the weariness in them, the stress and the misery, all of that added to the weight already on her mind.

Margaery remained on where she was, weighing what to do for just a moment too long.

He could not have seen her, could not have heard her, and yet he swung around in that very second. His eyes spotted her in a flash and he gave her a cordial smile, or what the closest thing for him was, anyway.

That allowed her no alternative, but to continue her way to where they stood, incapable to just strive off into the other direction as she had been prepared to. She forced a smile to her own lips, that felt so wrong it hurt physically, and approached the two, seizing the manner Sansa’s eyes settled on her with... she didn’t even know, did not have it in herself to study it... it was not joyous kindness, that was for certain. 

Margaery could merely hope that he took not much notice. The mood between them had to reek of tension, something he would eat up like a man starving.

“It is wonderful to have you up and on your feet again, Lady Margaery,” he remarked, sounding pleased for some reason. “The Lady Sansa told us you have been feeling under the weather?”

“I have,” Margaery confirmed curtly.

With anyone within the walls of Winterfell she did not give a damn if they learned about what she was hiding beneath her dress, now that Sansa knew she did not see the purpose of still keeping it a secret – except when it came to Lord Baelish. With him, she still had the definite apprehension it could easily be her undoing if he found out.

Margaery was grateful that Sansa had considered that and had kept her secret from him, alike if she had given her no reason or indication to do so.

“I just persuaded her that it is best to withdraw for some more rest,” Sansa told Lord Baelish, before looking back at Margaery with a faint smile, which no doubt was for his purpose. “Best to pace yourself, right?”

Even if the smile was feigned, it felt wonderful to be on the receiving side of it; even if the words revealed that she did not want her around. That she kept her secret and still could smile at her, was more than Margaery had expected.

“Yes,” Margaery agreed with a nod and a likewise strained smile. “I expect I might have misjudged my strength.”

He scrutinized her face. For once the sorrow she had struggled and failed to hide from Sansa would work in her favour. For someone who did not know better, she looked like someone recovering from the grippe.

“Perhaps we should send the Maester to examine you,” Lord Baelish suggested. “Anything that has somebody as fierce as you off her feet for over a week, might call for some further treatment.”

He did not believe the excuse of her being sick. Of course he didn’t. Knew something else going on, alike if she assumed that he could not have a definite understanding what it was.

“A generous thought, but not necessary,” Margaery declared with a shake of her head.  

A note later Sansa’s thoughtful eyes landed on her. “I will send the Maester. It is overdue that you are properly examined.”

Margaery nodded and forced a smile. “You are too kind.”

She knew when to disagree with Sansa was useless; knew she could not disagree in the proper way with Lord Baelish here. Likewise she hoped that it was all just further pretending, and not what her choice in words suggested.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Sansa offered in a way that almost sounded like _before_.

Margaery managed another smile and reluctantly strode off, leaving them behind. Even while she loathed leaving Sansa with him, as of right now she had no alternatives. Already at the stairs to the gallery, she flung a glance over shoulder, watching them stride off into the other direction, Lord Baelish talking insistent words to Sansa that she could not hear.

A wretched jealousy spread through her body. Instead of Lord Baelish, she should be the one walking with her, speaking about unresolved issues, proposing ideas and forms of approach. It should not have surprised her he had occupied the vacancy she had left at Sansa’s side in an instant, and yet it alone became obvious to her now and left her to hold on to the faith that Sansa’s state of mind was not so vulnerable to give into any false assumptions he tried to establish in her head.

A thought became more and more probable. The longer she reflected about it, the more plausible it became that he already had.

How short-sighted she had been, how blind! Upon her revelation to Sansa she had expected it entirely affected them and what was between them, but only now she understood how much wider repercussions it had.

What was going on between Sansa and Arya was more than just the messy effects of miscommunication and suspicion. Likewise, sending Brienne away reeked of him and his influence. Would fit into his plan of dividing the Stark sisters further. Brienne would not tolerate the escalation of a conflict between them, would step in before that could happen, and that was why he needed her gone.

She found Brienne waiting for her on top of the gallery, giving her a hopeful look, which she split off her face with a quiet shake of her head. She had failed in every aspect.

“You could refuse to go,” Margaery suggested quietly, as she stood next to Brienne, her eyes still trained on the two figures walking in the distance.

“No I can’t,” Brienne returned, looking at the pair as well.

“She can’t very well strap you to a horse and herd it down the King’s Road,” Margaery reasoned, realizing as she uttered the words that Brienne did not have it in her to deter an order that was given to her. Such a devotion and integrity as Brienne showed it, she had never experienced in anybody else. It was admirable. It was foolish.

“I count on that she knows what she’s doing,” Brienne explained. “No matter how little I appreciate it.”

The words calmed Margaery a bit. Perhaps Brienne was correct. They had to trust Sansa. Sansa had been doing just fine without Brienne by her side or her own presence through worse threats than Lord Baelish, and she had to trust she would proceed to do so. Sansa was smart and prospective in the strongest form.

Brienne gave her a side glance then. “And I trust you will watch out for her, specifically with him.”

Margaery nodded, even if she had no idea how to go about it.

The path back to her chamber felt like returning to a prison cell, the thought of going back and wasting her who knew how many days there suffocated her, now more than ever. The lethargy, the fatigue had lifted itself off her and in its place was an all too recognizable restlessness. Only it had never felt as threatening before.

Only once. In those last minutes of her former existence, before her world had gone black. When she stood in the centre of the Sept of Baelor, and had recognized the danger they were in, but powerless to do anything about it. Nothing was worse than perceiving the damnation forming over their heads like storm clouds and yet not being able to do a thing about it.

She knew she had to do something about Lord Baelish, but that meant understanding what his goal was. Margaery was no stranger to games, to plots and strategy, but this she could not wrap her head around. What good would come for him to divide Arya and Sansa? Was it all just to spread his influence on Sansa? Could that be so defining for him? And if it was, should she be concerned for herself?

While her mind still thought of what she could do to clear up this mess, she felt at least partially responsible for, trying to come up with a viable solution, she came to an abrupt hold as she saw that her chamber was not empty as she had left it.

Her posture turned bolt upright as she spotted Arya Stark sitting in the chair by the window, leaning back almost leisurely and looking out the window, in her hands a book that Margaery had read a couple of days ago. Margaery was irritated with herself for a flash for being caught so quiet off guard.

What in the world was she doing here? What did she want?

“This chamber is pretty well fitted out,” Arya perceived without turning towards her, “… for a servant, very well, I’d say.”

Margaery did not allow herself time to consider how the girl had noticed her presence, but instead answered without missing a beat. Forcing her voice to be unwavering and forcing any anxiety she had out of it.

“Your sister has been kind.”

Arya nodded and pushed herself up from the chair. As she twirled around, she took a few steps up and down the room, looking around.

“That is Sansa,” she drawled as she let fingers skim over a hair brush, one that was evidently too valuable to belong to a handmaiden. “Always kind, always doing what’s proper and befitted for her rank… I have never been as good as her in that.” She inclined her head and came to a hold a few feet away from Margaery. “I suppose it’s not thought polite to just invade someone’s chamber when they are not present.”

“You startled me for a moment,” Margaery acknowledged.

Arya didn’t look overly impressed. “Yes, well, that was the intention,” she declared with a challenging look in her eye.

Margaery was not easily intimidated. She had spent too much time in King’s Landing for that. Too much time with Cersei… and yet Arya Stark, those fierce dark eyes looking at her up close, it was enough to have her, perhaps not intimated, but surely to have all her senses on alert.

“Is there something I may serve you with, Lady Stark?” Margaery inquired cordially, yet unable to keep a challenging edge out of her tone.

With the hint of a smile on her face, Arya produced a sweeping gesture with her hands. “I do believe so. After all, that is what a handmaiden does, isn’t it?” Her tone was as vague as her statement.

Margaery planted a firm smile on her face. “What is it I can do for you?” Her voice just as firm as her eyes.

You do not frighten me, she thought almost dauntlessly. She had conquered bigger perils in her life than young girls who thought they could stretch their muscles and sought to play a game of cat and mouse. And quite frankly did not have the energy for fear in her anymore.

“You could lead with telling me your name.”

“I’m Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden.”

It felt wonderful to say those words out loud.

It was a judgement call right there and then. She could have lied. Could have told her the name Roeslyn Waters that came so smoothly off her lips. And by doing so, do precisely what Arya Stark had expected when she turned up here. She maybe had not known her true identity, but had at least presumed that she was not the handmaiden she was feigning to be.

Margaery stood by what she had told Sansa. She did not believe Arya to be the real threat here. Not for a second, even with the proper measure of hostility in Arya’s eyes.

Arya’s face did not show the slightest manifestation of astonishment or affirmation.

“I wondered, what a handmaiden would do with quite a complicated read as Manuscripts of Sieges and Crusades,” she remarked instead.

She had been in her chamber before, was what she wanted to let her perceive with this. Margaery had concluded that book several weeks ago. Margaery suppressed the part of herself that wished to shake Arya and tell her to just say what she came here to say.

“You are not what I imagined _the_ Queen Margaery to look like,” Arya noted observant. “Even in Essos there were tales of the elaborated beauty.”

No one ever mentioned her scars. Or the way they tainted her beauty. Not outright, not quite so directly… it was almost congenial that Arya Stark brought them up so deliberately.

“Courtesy of her grace, Cersei Lannister,” Margaery offered brief words of explanation.

Arya looked almost sympathetic. “I’m sorry about that. And I likewise apologise for just barging in like that,” she proceeded, as she let herself sink into the chair by the window. “Curiosity got the better of me.”

Margaery’s eyebrows shot up. “Curiosity for what?”

Arya leaned backward and shrugged. “Next to Littlefinger, you seemed to be the one always by Sansa’s side,” she elaborated. “And I did wonder why a servant could hold such interest for my sister.”

Margaery’s eyes narrowed, and she quipped her head. “I presume I helped you solve that riddle a lot quicker than you anticipated.”

“Yes,” she nodded and again an almost friendly smile played on her face. “Honesty is not something I put into many of my equations anymore. Refreshing.”

Margaery angled her head and smiled her most winning smile, suddenly regarding this as a chance, as a potential solution for all of it. If Sansa could not understand it, if she could not bring her to listen to her, then Arya Stark was her next best bet, albeit her last one at that. If it was honesty that Arya Stark called for, that was what she would give her.

“Let me be honest for a little longer then,” she said taking two steps in Arya Stark’s direction, looking into a face that held curious anticipation. “I do not know you, merely can rely on what Sansa has told me about you, but I think a girl who was left to her own defences at such a young age and survived, has to have a fair amount of intelligence.”

Arya’s eyes never faltered from her, carried no sentiment beyond perhaps amusement that a stranger spoke quite so directly with her, when for sure whatever she was doing here had the purpose of intimidating her.

“It takes true intellectual prestige to be striding through Winterfell the way you are, so above the rest of us inferior mortals,” Margaery continued on. “Well either that or a true fool.”

Arya _almost_ smirked at that.

“Which am I now? A fool or a genius?”

“That is what I haven’t estimated yet.” Margaery sat down on the edge of her bed and made a gravid pause. “You seem to be good at reading people, and you have a talent for your presence going unseen when you do not want someone to see it.”

Silently Arya waited for her to go on.

“At the same point you seem to waste all that tremendous potential in impulsiveness. You threaten your sister, accusing her of a betrayal, which you must realize does not hold the slightest ground.” 

Arya’s face showed no reaction, expect for the hint of a smile that had faded wholly.

“In midst of your quest of bringing out the truth, with quite such a righteousness and arrogance, you have not noticed that you have played straight into Lord Baelish’s hands.” Margaery let out an enraged breath, compelling herself to not talk herself into trouble here. So far she could merely speculate that Arya was not dangerous, but she had no definite proof she would not cut her throat in the blink of an eye if she took it one step too far. 

“You and your sister have become so busy with distrusting each other, it’s become painful to watch. Each of you seizing the next step from the other. Both of you so engrossed with the perception of understanding each other as a threat that you are losing sight of the true threat.”

Margaery breathed, as she had talked herself into a fury. Fast spoken words were rarely ever wisely appointed and did even less to persuade your opposite of your arguments.

“Sansa is not your opponent,” she proceeded a little slower, but not lacking the passion in her voice. “It’s time you stop acting like hers. So both of you can focus on the real enemy.”

Arya remained silent. Her expression unreadable as she continued to stare at Margaery. And Margaery held her gaze without wavering. Silence did not intimidate her. She had learned long ago that it was a powerful weapon not only in getting people to talk, but also in proving your point. Loose lips sink ships, her grandmother used to say. And she was right.

“And Littlefinger is the real enemy?”

Margaery raised her brows and returned the challenging gaze Arya seized her up with. Two could play the game of acting superior, Margaery had learned it from the best and mastered it through many years.

“And what about yourself?” Arya asked as she leaned forward. “Are you a threat?”

If it had not been for the two weapons strapped to the girl's hip, she would have laughed in her face. Perhaps Arya Stark did not know as much about her as she had thought going into this exchange. A young pregnant woman, with nothing but a name to herself of a house that did not exist anymore, hiding out in a servant’s chamber, not even the dresses on her back her own. In no scenario in the world was that a threat to anyone. Least of all House Stark. And certainly never to Sansa

“I’m not,” she said simply instead.

For Arya, their conversation seemed to an end just at this point. She stood up from the chair, adjusting the leather strap around her waist.

“I’m glad we sorted that out.” Arya walked past Margaery without giving her much more than a side glance in passing. “Thank you for your time Lady Margaery. And your honesty.”

Margaery sat there for a long moment, looking at the empty chair in front of her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This had not been part of her plan. Not that she had one in the first place. While she was glad she had had the chance to say what she had said, she was not sure if it would end up being helpful. Maybe. But maybe she had made the rift between the two sisters even greater.

Everything she touched and tried seemed to make things worse lately. Particularly for Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and there we have it. Yet another chapter on the angsty side, but I hope that I hope that does not scare you off, I still promise a happy(ish?) ending. :)  
>  Let me also use this note to give a major thank you to everyone for the tremendous encouragement I received for this story. This week I passed 400 Kudos and the realization that there are over 400 people out there who enjoy something I have written is simply overwhelming.  
> This is not my first fanfiction, not by far, I have written for a whole variety of different fandoms for the past 10-15 years, but I have never actually gotten so close to finishing such a mammoth of a story before, and that has all to do with each and everyone of you.  
> So thank you, thank you, thank you! For every Kudos, every subscription, every comment and every bookmark. You guys are awesome!


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Sorrow had the strangest effect on Sansa.

In this week she had been driven more than ever before in her life. In a sense that one could alone define as restless. She had been on the move every waking minute of her day. Not always with a particular purpose, but nonetheless walking with hurried strides as if she was fleeing from something. Or someone.

She was virtually positive she must have wandered the distance to White Harbour just within this one week. She was constantly leading someplace, achieving something, recovering something to concentrate on. Occupying her eyes and mind with anything that was the slightest bit out of order, that called for her attention. So much so, that after a couple of days she was certain she had the servants terrified of her. They hushed away when they saw her, feared she would point out an imperfection, whether it was in their appearance, their work, alike just an improper glance. Sansa did not love to be regarded as that person, did not want to be that kind of person, that kind of leader, but it was all she found in herself to survive.

It was all she had been capable to accomplish in order to sustain.

Anything not come to a rest, anything to stop herself from feeling.

Anything to force her mind stop thinking about Margaery.

Anything to stop her from doing what she yearned for more than anything, which was to seek out Margaery and forget all about that took place, act like her betrayal did not weigh as heavily as it did.

Anything that would lead her feet anywhere, but to that godforsaken door that seemed to taunt her to knock on it.

When her steps had carried her here to the Sept that afternoon, it had the purpose to be just another part of her day that she skimmed through. To do what she had to, see if everything was in order, only another thing to occupy herself with.

Only, the serenity that the Sept had offered was something she had not counted on.

Out of respect for this sacred place, because she could not just stride through it like it was the armoury, she had slowed her steps only to come to a complete hold when she’d reached the other end. She had stood there, looking at the images of the Seven, bathed in dim, peaceful candle light, and all her restlessness had turned to an unexpected stop.

With that stagnation of her motion, with nothing to distract herself for the first time in a, gradually her chain of thought picked up where she had abandoned it when Margaery had disappeared behind the door to her chamber.  

The anger and disappointment, together with the recollection, the images of the last time she’d been here had overwhelmed her, so very that she had been sure her knees would give out if she would take another step, and so she had sunk onto the bench.

A minute of fragility and rest would do no harm, she had told herself.

And then Margaery had come to find her.

The walls that she had built around herself in order to protect herself had crashed together over her head and buried her.

Seeing her, speaking to her… it had been impossible.

She had been caught by surprise when Margaery sought her out, especially as it had been the first occasion in days where she had allowed herself a hint of weakness; something she had turned into an armour within the blink of an eye, transferred it into anger.

In the end, though, that rage had merely been partially aimed at Margaery. A considerable portion of it was likewise anger towards herself. To the fact that she still appeared to not know better. That Margaery’s presence still evoked that foolish longing for her. That two small words breathed from Margaery’s lips could still light her heart on fire.

It was weakness, plain and simple. And stupidity. And exactly the reason why she had avoided Margaery within the last week.

At the same time, she’d direly realized that not seeing Margaery had changed little to nothing about what sentiments she held for her. Those had not simply dissolved, because she had not seen her or talked to her, no matter how much simpler that would have made things. And that realisation was nothing less of torment. It seemed impossible to be going from kissing Margaery, to having to keep her distance, now that she had gotten a taste of what it was like to open up to her – body and mind.

To have the one person she trusted most in the world rip that feeling from her was not just cruel, it was positively devastating.

She had kept moving afterwards, tried to keep herself occupied, and somehow she had prevailed the rest of that day and the one that followed, but the thoughts, the worries, would not be silenced anymore. Once she’d allowed that short moment of her emotions flaring up, it was hard to eliminate them again, neither was she sure that she wholly wanted them gone.

Margaery in many aspects, even before everything had gone to hell, was an addiction of sorts. Thinking about her, even with all she knew now, alike when reflecting about her hurt more than she could put in words… even that bitter sweet pain memories brought her, was in the strangest way pleasant… and if merely because it was better than not feeling anything at all.

That numb, dis-attached person she had been before Margaery’s arrival had not been her favourite version of herself, only a necessity to survive. Just as it was necessary now. She could not let herself be emotional right now, had to become that unfeeling person again, if she wanted to move on.

Not just in regards to Margaery, while she might have been the most forefront thing Sansa pondered about, she was only top of a very long list. Countless apprehensions drew circles in Sansa’s mind and, just as her musings about Margaery, she could not stifle them anymore, they had come to the surface and lay like exposed wounds in her mind.

Brienne had left in the morning, and while that had been her ruling and something she stood behind and was definite was the reasonable thing to do, for the first time in over a year she was without her or Jon by her side.

Jon’s extended absence was another concern. Gods, she had never missed her stupid big brother more than she did right now and wondered, not for the first time, what in the seven hells was taking him so long.

The parley that would take place weighed on her without question. While she recognized its purpose, and indeed understood Jon’s reason, he and Cersei in the same place did little to sooth her nerves. He did not know her, clearly underestimated her and how vile she could be. Cersei ate honest and truthful people like him for breakfast. It was hard not to worry about that, yet the gathering in King’s Landing was solely one element she fretted.

The dragon queen was a whole other. Sansa was thousands of miles away from them, and still from here she could sense that whatever influence or even judgement Daenerys Targaryen held over Jon was not the best. Certainly outweighed whatever she still – if she ever had – carried on him herself.

Had she not asked him to be prudent, not to be reckless? And what did that grand fool? Waste weeks in dragon stone, not reply to any of her letters, go beyond the wall, and to top it all off, meet Cersei in King’s Landing. It left her holding, no hanging, on by a thread to her trust in him and the conviction that what was beyond the wall was as petrifying as he claimed. Nothing else, nothing at all, would condone such a headless behaviour otherwise.

Then there was Arya, with whom things seemed more obscure than ever before. They had not seen a whole lot of each other, but the little they had, well, Sansa could not say that it had necessarily soothed her nerves.

Through each and every one of these concerns, problems that should have weighed more and had far greater ramifications than those of Margaery’s revelation, which was doubtlessly hurtful, but considering everything that was going on in the world around her relatively unimportant; thinking about Margaery weighed harder on her than everything else combined.

Every single one of her thoughts, no matter how much she focused on something else, no matter how much she struggled, her thoughts eventually always came back to that one stringent question.

Why had she not just told her? What had brought Margaery to not just be sincere with her from the start?

Hells, not even her arrival in Winterfell, but any time before everything that had passed between them. There had been countless opportunities.

Sansa did not buy her excuse of being scared. That was part of the reason perhaps, but not the entirety. Sansa knew there had to be more. Yes, fear led people to foolish choices, but that was… not good enough a reason. It would not come together just like that for Sansa. Fear in this case just wasn’t an adequate explanation.

But what other reason could there be… well to be honest, it scared her to fully think about it. Because what if the answer worse than just deceiving her, perhaps worse than she could handle?

Maybe her focus did not have to be questioning her motives, but figuring out where they could go from here.

Avoiding Margaery like she did was purely a momentary solution. She could sense her willpower to preserve that distance wavering already, if solely for sheer exhaustion that appeared with reducing her sleeping hours – the hours she spent in her chamber, close to Margaery – to a definite necessary minimum.

There had been a very short moment, in the midst of her greatest anger, where she had considered expelling her from Winterfell. She had discarded it in the same heartbeat. Sending a pregnant woman – one week and it still seemed bizarre to use these words even in thought concerning Margaery – on the King’s Road, by herself, in the midst of Winter, was unthinkable with someone she only held half the sentiment for she did. Sansa was angry, but she did not have that unkindness in herself.

Moreover she did not want Margaery gone from her life per se… only she couldn’t easily endure her presences either. Not yet.

There was the prospect to move Margaery to another part of Winterfell, which for one, was also only a temporary solution and furthermore something she did not think she could bring herself to. It brought a   kind of finality she was not sure she was ready for, or indeed wanted. No matter how angry and disillusioned she was with her, no matter how little she could stand the thought of speaking with her right now.

In the entire madness of everything that was happening, despite everything, she liked knowing Margaery was close by, that she had the option to talk to her at any given point should she choose to.

It was stupid, and unreasonable and still… For now she still permitted herself some kind of adjustment stage, where she assessed herself, what she wanted and what she needed, even if she knew it was not a durable solution.

It was merely one that postponed one particular question: Did she still want Margaery as part of her life or not?

It was still beyond her perceiving how she had gotten to this position, from a day that had dawned with such a blissful awakening, with such a grasp of content, to raising her voice to Margaery, holding back tears that long overdue to spill; to having to fathom if she wanted Margaery around anymore.

Her restlessness had brought her to the Gods Wood tonight and walking through the dimness of the moon light falling through the leaves of the Weirdwood Tree. Trying to not think about how she felt the last time she was here, she found herself tempted to give into her misery, perhaps to sit down on the root, stare into the small pool of frozen water and weep all the tears that yearned to be spilled. But she couldn’t. Knew better.

Sansa had not cried over what had happened. How could she have? Where would she even have the peace, be left alone for long enough to give in to such a point of weakness? A place to cry in peace, allow herself to grieve over what she had lost, did not seem to exist anymore. And while tears might have been helpful for a flash, she was too terrified of what would develop after giving into that misery.

Her judgment not to allow her need for tears was proven right not much later. She heard the steps approaching long before she saw anyone. In the dim light she needed a moment to recognize the petite figure that fell into her step effortlessly, but it wasn’t before long until her eyes found those of her sister in a side glance.

She resisted the feeling of anxious reluctance that Arya’s vigilant eyes never failed to spark. Struggled to concentrate on all the reasons why her sister was not a threat, all the apparent arguments that spoke against it. It didn’t ease, too severely ingrained was yet that spirit of wariness, that she had felt the day Arya encountered her with that godforsaken scroll.

“You are harder to locate than usual,” Arya spoke when she got to a halt in front of her.

“That is the point of coming here by myself at night,” Sansa gave back neutrally.

“You were trying to avoid me,” Arya noted.

Not just you, Sansa thought. Any human contact. All that obliged her to utter words.

“I understand the need for solace,” Arya declared. “But this cannot wait.”

Sansa just peered at her sister with expecting heavy eyes. Arya meeting her here, pursuing her so late in the evening, seeking her out at all, left Sansa preparing herself for a substantial fallout. Whether it was another wave of accusations or a blade at her throat, should have Arya have concluded that she was a threat to their house after all.

“I need to speak with you about Margaery Tyrell.”

Arya knowing who was really behind the handmaiden Roselyn Waters should have not surprised Sansa. What she had witnessed of her sister suggested that she was just as, if not higher, talented as Littlefinger in finding information like this specific one. And in the end neither she nor Margaery had payed particular much attention to keep this disguise up; both to preoccupied with other, more pleasant things.

“What about her?”

Arya twisted around blocking Sansa’s way, making them both come to a stop.

“Well, for one it would have been useful information to have, that you granted secret refuge to a Lannister Queen.”

The words that she was not a Lannister, neither still a queen where on the tip of Sansa tongue but she swallowed them.

“I granted refuge to a friend,” she replied instead holding Arya’s grim gaze on her.

“One who is pregnant with Cersei Lannister’s grandchild and neglected to disclose it,” Arya pointed out unrelenting. “Perhaps our definition of friend is a different one.”

They were standing on a small clearing illuminated by the moon light and she finally could see Arya’s face clearly, the silent daring her to react to these words.

Sansa stood there in true astonishment. Arya knowing about Margaery hiding here and who she was, was one point. Arya knowing about Margaery’s pregnancy… how could she know? How when even Sansa did not know for much longer than a week and had told nobody?

Had it perhaps only been herself who had been that ignorant?

The morning Margaery had exposed the swell of her stomach to her, she had considered it as so evident all of a sudden, she had felt like a moron for not realizing it earlier. Perhaps someone with as strong and accurate apprehension as Arya had noticed it earlier.

It would by far not be the first time Arya saw and comprehended something before she did.

In that way, Arya had an intuition that she’d never had. Even as just a child it had never been a question whether or not the Lannister were honourable people. For her to figure that out it had taken the painful act of watching their father’s head chopped off, at Joffrey’s orders. Only then she had understood that Joffrey, Cersei, everybody in King’s Landing, had been not who they had seemed to her.

Experience is an excellent teacher, they said, but she supposed that after making the same mistake a certain number of times, it got to the point where it was less a forgivable failure of judgment and more a character trait.

Trusting the wrong people was a trap she had walked into too many times throughout her life. It was like her own belief or hope for people to be sincere had kept her from seeing their true nature. With Littlefinger, with Ramsay… and now with Margaery.

Her heart had never been so rich in trusting anyone. And even now, when she knew that she had misled her, and she rationally knew she should have not even a shred of sentiment, let alone trust for her, she could not resist that grasp of trust that was deeply rooted inside her. All that tenderness she held for. It was just there, with every thought of her. Confining, entrusting herself in Margaery as fully as she had, had felt wonderful. So very much that now she desperately resolved not to let that pass just yet. Not to lose Margaery and the feelings she had erupted within her. The positivity. Her rediscovered capacity to trust. To care.

When she was with Margaery, she had never felt like that silly girl. She had treated her differently. Had valued her judgment. Had challenged her to express her mind. And yet now, she felt not much wiser or any better than that foolish young girl in King’s Landing that had trusted Joffrey to be merciful with her father.

What good was any of that? What good where any of those feelings when they appeared to not hold a sliver of sincerity? When all that had been said between them, all that had transpired between them had been based on nothing but lies.

Sansa took a deep breath to liberate herself of those sentiments.

“How do you know about that?”

When Arya reached into her waistcoat and retrieved out a bundle of neatly folded up papers, Sansa searched her head if there was another document she had written in her lifetime that Arya might find useful against her. Perhaps something more recent to undergird her earlier accusations? A letter to House Glover perhaps that did not contain the proper amount of obeisance towards Jon? Or a report that implied she had been dismantling the arrangements for Winter rather than encouraging them?

“What are those?” She asked plainly and glared at the hand that held the sheets towards her.

“Something I expect you’ll find of importance.”

Sansa lifted her chin and did not move a finger, challenge in her eyes. “You’re seem to enjoy reading dreadful words to me. Why the hesitation now?”

Arya raised her eyebrows but withdrew her hand and unfolded one of the notes. With a sharp voice she started to recite.

“My dear Lord Ashford, my valuable friend, I am writing to you out of a hardship. I, nay, House Tyrell, was done wrong, has been betrayed, as I am sure you have received, but fret not – the reports of my death were false, I have survived the vicious attack of the Sept of Baelor. Still, I am in desperate need of your support. The Iron Throne was seized unrightfully by Cersei Lannister, who has lied, betrayed, and manipulated her path to it, so cruelly she resolved not recoil from committing murder. Yet, there is a rightful successor to the throne, to my dear late husband, Tommen Baratheon – who has been driven into so much sorrow by that wretched woman he saw no course but to take his own life – I am with child. The rightful heir to the throne—”

Sansa reached out and tore the piece of paper from Arya, requiring to see those words for herself. Letting her eyes stray over the delicately written lines once, twice. The light was weak, but enough to take a lengthy and careful look. Even though part of her understood precisely what they meant, no implied, it was nevertheless a lot to take in. Something that stripped her breathing. Even more so looking at the potential repercussions that the words on the paper suggested.

Carefully taking in each phrase, wishing that she would have missed something. A word skipped that maybe would give the whole letter a different context. She felt a trembling coming to her hand every time she read promises not only to take back the throne, but likewise assured alliance in the North promised so by “my dear friend the Lady of Winterfell”.

When she completed reviewing it for the third time, she let the hand that gripped it descend to her side.

How could she for a second expected anything else? How could she believe that for once in her life she could indeed trust someone?

“What about the other?” Sansa asked, peering at the folded up piece of paper still in Arya’s hand. Foolishly hoping that perhaps some of those contained absolving words.

Arya flipped through the pile still in her hand. “More of the same I’m afraid. Addressed to House Beesbury, Rowan, Leygood, Bulwer, Merryweather, Cuy… I think all the houses of the Reach, but my knowledge in that regard was never as thorough as yours.”

She held them out to Sansa then, who wavered in reaching for them, until she plucked them from Arya’s fingers eventually. For a moment, Sansa’s fingers stiffened on them and just for a flash she contemplated, tearing it up, throwing them into the snow so the ink would dissolve, or burning them at the next chance. Only to protect Margaery from what they meant for her.

For the both of them.

Sansa knew Margaery’s handwriting well. Would have recognised it under dozens. Knew the sweeping script that she had admired so often in the last weeks in those reports she had summarised for her, the ones that Sansa had picked up a lot more times and read over than needed, just because… she missed her. And seeing her written word lying in front of her, she could stare at the words long enough until they twisted into a letter to herself, one with all the proper words, all the appropriate explanations.

She shook her head. No, she needed to focus on the matter at hand here. On the pair of eyes that lingered for her to express something, for any kind of backlash.

Again, it was not as if Sansa did not realize what these details meant. She did. Torturously so. It was more that she did not perceive if she could follow up with what they meant for her, what they implied she was required to do.

This was… well, at best, subversive behaviour.

At worst, it was treason plain and simple.

“Where did you find these?” Her eyes flashed up at her sister then, probing.

Arya’s face remained as indifferent as constantly, as it had been ever since her arrival to Winterfell. Hardly ever a sentiment given away in it. Hardly ever mercy, let alone doubt.

That was something she carried in advantage over Sansa, because Sansa felt both of those elements. More than she should have.

“In her chamber," Arya answered unwavering. “Concealed behind the vanity.”

“And who knows about this?” Sansa asked then.

“I did not show it to anybody, but you.”

Arya was presenting her a resort, Sansa realised suddenly. That was why she had found her here of all places, so late in the evening. Only she did not entirely grasp why. Maybe she wished to test her, see how far her loyalty went, how far she was willing to go to protect her home. Maybe she had estimated how deep her affection for Margaery went. Maybe she simply deemed and recognized that it was Sansa’s judgment as the Lady of Winterfell.

Sansa knew what she had to do. Destroying those would not resolve anything.  

She could not just ignore it, could not pretend that she had never seen those letters. No matter how endearing the prospect sounded.

Her fingers loosened a little around the sheets in them and she studied them a final time before folding it up and tucking them all away in the pocket of her robe.

“You understand what it would mean if those had been delivered, don’t you?” Arya looked at her with her eyebrows raised, as if she was challenging her to offer a reaction to this, to what this meant, entailed. Only Sansa did not have it in her. Felt the same disillusionment that she had suffered throughout the last week, the same suppressed rage that was stained by anguish. Only by a thousandfold.

Sansa nodded still. Of course she understood. How could she possibly not?

If those had been sent, the consequences could have been tremendous. Sansa doubted there was any reasonable prospect of Margaery recapturing the throne- that was not what worried her. It was declared in those letters that House Stark supported an attempt to do so. If those words had made it to Cersei, her wrath would have been horrific. So far, she tolerated the King in the North and the Starks on Winterfell because they did not outright interfere with anything that was of interest to her. With this information in her hands all bets would have been off and might have indeed drawn the parley and everyone attending in jeopardy.

In all her pondering about Margaery and the question of why she had not told her, Sansa had done her best to ignore this specific detail. The part that Margaery was pregnant with the late King’s heir.

Despite all those splendid speeches about the iron throne being dispensable, about no further desires to be queen... hiding what she had been hiding did not underline those promises. This was someone who had been groomed to be queen, striven her entire life to reach that point, and then lost it. If someone presented you a way back in you’d accept it. Especially one that was so unavoidable, anyhow. Once the wrong people learned of this unborn child’s existence, it was merely a matter of time before Margaery found herself forced into a position of power struggles, because that was simply how the world they lived in worked.

“You know what you have to do,” Arya insisted, drawing a stride forward. It never failed to amaze Sansa how someone who was a foot shorter than her could hold such sheer force in her posture. Arya’s eyes were quietly urging her not to surrender now. To prove she wanted what was right for her, for their house, for them.

Sansa did want to give that confirmation to her sister. Only that did not mean that speaking the words was any easier. She could not help the images of Margaery flashing before her eyes. Images not of the friendly, typical smile, or the occasional fierceness, but of the more vulnerable side of her. That sense of insecurity in her eyes right after their first kiss. Margaery speaking about what she had endured after the Wildfire. Her admittance to being scared of Cersei. The tiredness and sorrow in her features yesterday.

Could she do what she knew she had to? Do that to Margaery?

She urged the words of her lips, almost hastily, before she had any chance to change her mind. “We will have to find her a chamber that is suitable as a cell.”

Arya nodded, looking more content than Sansa thought she could stand. “When?”

“Within this hour. As of right now we yet have the element of surprise on our side. If the letters are discovered as missing, ...”

She wanted to tell herself that Margaery was not stupid enough to defy anyone, was not in the physical constitution to do so, but desperation could be a powerful force, one that should not be underestimated, and could lead you to misguided decisions.

They had to factor that in, plan what they would do accordingly. Part of her wished that she could be present when she was confronted with this accusations, but realized at the same time that this was the worst conceivable idea.

A couple of hours ago, the thought of facing Margaery, of looking into her eyes, had been torturous. Now it seemed impossible. She could not look into her eyes right now. Felt afraid of what would happen if she did. She did not think she could stand even a second of it. Could certainly not stand another strands of words of regret and excuses. Knew that her resolve would weaken if she did.

And it would call for trouble, possibly a catastrophe, even more than the one they were already in the midst of. 

 “I will oversee it,” Arya offered as if she read her thoughts. “Should she try to resist, any of her splendid, coaxing words will not have a very rich effect on me.”

Sansa gave her sister a lengthy and exhaustive look of consideration before she gradually nodded. She knew she did not have to disclose to Arya that she did not wish Margaery harmed in any way. She was distraught at her, furious even, hurt beyond knowing someone could make you feel like that without physically injuring you. She knew had no choice but to believe that she could depend on Arya with this.

“The top floor of the Guest House,” Sansa said thus. “Have her taken there.”

The guest house was mainly uninhabited, perhaps as of right now the least populated part in all of Winterfell. It would serve the purpose well. Comfortable enough for her condition and her status, but with empty rooms surrounding her, isolating her as called for right now until… well until they would figure out how to move forward.

Sansa remained in the Gods Wood as she watched Arya stride off with resolve. She recognized she had to linger here. Could be nowhere near what would take happen in her chambers within the next hour. Even if part of her yearned to be and was to a measure even morbidly curious to see Margaery’s reception of all those allegations.

Would she be astonished? Would she reject them straight away? Would she defend herself? Would she struggle to reason with Arya?

…would she be frightened?

Sansa had to close her eyes at that notion, could not help it. The prospect of Margaery being scared, petrified, throbbed in her chest. Too vividly she recalled the picture of despair Margaery had presented that day in the stables. Most of all, her reaction of panic. The disbelief, the dread radiating off of her, the strangled sobs though her laboured breathing.

Would it be the same this time?  If so, there would be no shutter to open. No one to hold her or console her.

That mental image was almost enough to have Sansa rush out of the Gods Wood and try to force a halt to what she’d sent Arya to do.  Just almost, though.

Did Margaery still deserve her sympathy? After all she’d done, what she had put Sansa through?

Presumably not, but it was not as if Sansa could just turn that instinct off, albeit, she was learning and exercising restraint. Yet, she was not anywhere near to closure on the subject of Margaery Tyrell, by no means, and by the Gods, it did not seem as if she’d ever be. Or even wish to be. Not intervening now was a first step.  It was a necessary step in the right direction, the rest she hoped would follow.

While Sansa’s grasp of time passing was solid, this time she did not need to take any chances. In her mind she followed Arya on her track, estimating how much time she would require for all this entailed. She regarded every step, every corner, every doorway, every individual that might cross her path. In her mind she mapped out and accompanied her sister to addressing a chamber maid requesting her to arrange the chamber. That would take a while even if the servants rushed to do so. After that was accomplished, she was sure Arya would inspect the chamber herself, checking that it would not only serve its purpose, but also examine and eliminating possible escape routes. Only then, she’d address the guards to give them the order to bring Margaery there.

Sansa calculated and followed each of those steps, waited where she was even a note longer than she deemed truly necessary, just to be on the safe side, and ultimately it was only marginally sufficient. Coming back into the courtyard she spotted three figures walking in the snow, a fourth one abiding in the background. There was not a single doubt in her mind that it was the guards leading Margaery across the courtyard, and Arya observing from a sure distance.

The scene was so calm, it brought Sansa to perceive that Arya had postponed confronting Margaery with the letters only once she was in the security of her new chamber, her prison. She had not brought Margaery to face with what had piled up against her, and it was a sensible choice from her sister’s part. Who knew what Margaery could have done otherwise. Fear was a poor counsellor, one that brought people to do stupid things.

In a manner, it was heart-breaking that Margaery did not recognize what would come, all she could understand for now  was that Sansa had resolved to not want her in her immediate vicinity anymore, and that was shattering in a whole different means, because despite everything... it was still the farthest thing that Sansa truly wanted.  

When the gate to the guest house closed lastly behind Arya, she yanked herself away from the sight and forbade herself any kind of sympathy there and then. It was compassion born out of the false reasons. Only there because despite all, she still felt so genuinely for this woman, even when she should know better.

The tremendous tiredness was still draped around Sansa’s entire existence, and even though she only considered retreating back to her bedchamber to rest, for a small instance. It would be the first time in three months that Margaery would not be there, and no matter that had happened on her request and resolution, she could not bring herself to return there in this moment. In the time to come she foresaw she would have enough hours of grasping the emptiness of Margaery’s chamber.

Going to the solar and occupying herself with work was the sole thing she knew she could yet do. Perhaps have a cup of wine that would dull her senses enough until she was calm or tired enough to go back there.

With a mug of hot wine she sat behind her desk and spread the treacherous letters before herself on the table. In the gentle light she scanned the writing once again, examined the wording. It remained the same as it had in the dimness of the Gods Wood.

You foolish, foolish woman, she thought not for the first time. What grief and nerves could you have saved the both of us if you’d simply been honest from the start.

She swallowed a generous portion of the wine, wishing it would eliminate the taste of dishonesty, ease the burning behind her eyes.

“I’m concerned for you Sansa.”

Littlefinger’s statement startled her so much for a juncture, the feel of sorrow she harboured disappeared. He stood in the door way looking genuinely troubled. 

“You’ve been working too much, too late into the night,” he went on, reaching her desk, coming to a stop behind the chair opposite to her and braced himself on the backrest. “Pace your strength.”

She ceased from telling him that her chores and her duty was the mere thing that still carried her upright, the responsibility all that kept her going; strength had escaped her days ago.

“I appreciate the concern Lord Baelish,” she rattled down the civil, proper response. “It is misplaced though.”

He seized her up with Argus-eyes, and she held his look, alike while his presence felt like it would suffocate her.

Everything, she assumed, would be a lot more manageable if it was not for those eyes on her. Like a vulture, lingering to occupy that gap that Margaery had left. Not just the one on her side he had slithered into like the bloody snake he was.

She was certain by now that he knew for the void that Margaery’s absence had left behind in her heart. Could not be sure how, but assumed he recognized at least partially what had transpired between her and Margaery. Alike, if it was hard to comprehend how precisely he would have achieved that. Then again, Brienne had suggested it. Spies everywhere. And maybe that short note of recklessness the day after on their course back from the Glass Gardens had been enough.

Yet, had the idea to ever letting him close to her seemed improbable before, now it was out-of-the-question, the-thought-made-her-skin-crawl, she’d-rather-rip-off-her-own-arm impossible. After experiencing sincere affection, genuine affection – and besides all that Margaery had done, there was no ambiguity in her perceiving it had been that – the idea or even the recollection of Lord Baelish being anything of an option, for her, was so very farfetched she wanted to laugh at it.

Only as of right now, she could not show that; as long as she was not fully sure of his incentive, of that he would not yet turn on her, she could not take that risk, no matter how sick of his behaviour and of him she was.

For now he continued being an unavoidable evil that was a better to have on her side than opposed to her.

“And I’m not working,” she continued on with a dispirited look to the papers spread in front of her. She had hoped to defer this until tomorrow, wait until she got report from Arya how everything had passed, but perhaps that was merely delaying the unavoidable. He would learn about Margaery’s fate either way, and if this sustained her from anymore testimonies of concern, so be it. “Something has happened tonight. Take a seat.”

With curious and alert eyes, he sat down across from her, studying first her more thoroughly than before, then the letters on the table shortly. “You sound serious,” he offered.

“That’s because it is.”

Randomly, she plucked a sheet from the dozen in front of her and held it out to him. With piercing eyes on hers, he reached for the presented document and only tore them away from her to skim the words on it, granting Sansa a small pause in which she felt she could breathe and prepare herself for what was to come.

“That is… considerable,” he determined, putting the letter back down on. “Is it true? She is pregnant?”

Sansa nodded.

“Are we confident that those are not forged?”

It was spectacular that Littlefinger of all people made this innuendo. Sansa was not someone who enjoyed gambling, but she would have wagered everything against that he was the one to produce arguments, or ask questions in Margaery’s defence.

“They were hidden in her chamber,” Sansa noted. “Besides, who would alike have a reason to forge them? Who would have the crucial information to do so? I did not until a week ago.”

“If I may-”  he looked at her insistently, leaning forward “-even as things are looking to be and with evidence staking up. We should be sensible here. Consider her perspective.”

“I can’t imagine you of all granting people who are an evident threat the benefit of the doubt.”

“She did not send the letters,” Littlefinger shrugged off the insinuation. “I can see her being in a desperate situation,” he passed a pregnant pause, “and that I might have not encourage that position.”

Sansa blinked at him, genuinely taken by wonder. It was striking enough to have him admitting to being at fault for anything. For _this_ … something that could be deemed treason… it was outrageous. And she required to know what he was speaking about, thought this piece of information was perhaps something that had to do with Margaery not disclosing her secret beforehand. If he declared to his liability in that, perhaps all she assumed she perceived was off.

“A couple of weeks ago I got my hands on a document, a precise description really… about the capture of Highgarden under the Cersei’s armies.”

Sansa felt her hand fist under the table. “And you showed this to her?”

For a moment Sansa could not resist the sympathy she felt. Had she been in a comparable position once? One where nothing but terrible news reached her from what had formerly been her home? Where she had been entirely helpless to do anything about it? Had she not hung to every hope, even the slimmest prospect of salvation?

Littlefinger made an apologetic face that maintained some sincere regret. “She seemed rather removed from the message. I truly considered it would simply serve her valuable to understand what had happened, offer her some closure… which in hindsight might have been irrational.”

“More than just irrational,” Sansa declared sharply. “If this drove her to do-“ she drew a calming breath and her eyes sketched over the letters and she gestured towards them “-this, then you can be lucky that your thoughtless behaviour did not lead to any greater harm.”

“I honestly thought it left her relatively untouched,” he continued on. “Had she given me any other sign, behaved any other manner than she did, I would have of course brought it to your immediate awareness.”

Sansa seized him with hard eyes. “You of all people I’d expect to understand that a reaction presented does not necessarily reveal on a person’s true intentions.”

“While I deserve that,” he conceded politely. “I believed that she’d share this with you on her own terms. After all, you two were quite close.”

He hit the nail right on the head there, though something about that comment made Sansa’s skin crawl. She could not say whether it was the way he looked at her as he spoke those words. Was there indeed accusation in them?

“What will you do now,” he inquired after a stage of silence.

“They have taken her for confinement to a chamber in the guest house,” Sansa declared.

Littlefinger seemed startled that she had already pushed forwards with this and likewise reluctant to that approach. “If I may – would it not be best to hear her out first?”

The shake of Sansa’s head was there before he had was done talking.

Littlefinger tilted his head thoughtfully. “This upsets you,” Littlefinger noted very much unnecessarily.

“I realize I should be focused on what she did,” Sansa offered anyway, identifying when lying to him wasn’t worthwhile. More than ever when he stared at her like that. “But I cannot help it, for the previous weeks I have thought her a friend. A confidant even. That perceiving of her is so lodged in my mind I feel I cannot shake it.”

“You care for her,” this time it was a statement, not a question.

Sansa nodded her head, feeling weaker than she had in a long time. So weak that she made the admittance without struggle. “I should know better. I know better.”

She did not want to talk about this with him. Felt her emotions too all over the place to have this discussion. Was afraid of what she could reveal. About Margaery, about herself, about everything. For her sake, Sansa could not demonstrate how very much this troubled her, how much it took out of her to pass this choice, how much it ached.

He leaned back and watched at her, studied her, something she was so aware of she hardly dared to take the shaky breath that her lungs were screaming for.

“Maybe that affection you have for her is your salvation,” he opened vaguely.

Sansa did not understand what he tried to imply and her face suggested to appear it as he moved on with a sympathetic yet somewhat patronising smile.

“When you think of her, think of moments you shared, moments where you enjoyed her presence and considered her _a_ _friend_. And then remind yourself it were her actions that robbed you of them.”

Sansa let the words settle. Long and earnestly.

It was… good advice; genuinely so. To such an extent, despite knowing all he said was to be taken with more than just a grain of salt, it was something she knew she would not merely hold on to, but consider doing. Something that was perhaps the indispensable thing to do should she ever hope to overcome the all-embracing temptation that Margaery Tyrell was.

Once she had decided for herself it was what she even wanted. That she could bring herself to do. 

“I will try,” she said in contemplation.

Honestly she had no other alternative.

Oh, what she would not give to not be face with any of the decisions she saw herself facing.

“Forgive me for being so direct, Sansa.” For his measure he once again looked somewhat unsettled and worried, more so than she still gave him credit for. “But I think you are aware putting Lady Margaery in confinement is only a momentary solution.”

“Until she gives births, our only viable one,” she shot back; too fast, too passionately, too inconsiderate.

It nevertheless remained true. No one in their proper mind would bring a pregnant woman to any sort of trial. And Sansa had never been more thankful for Margaery’s condition before. Never been more grateful for an unspoken rule in her lifetime. Because it provided them just that: time. It gave her time.

Even if she was not sure anymore for what precisely. Anything that would defer the point where she’d have to deal with the extent of this betrayal, seemed enough for now. Anything to delay seeing Margaery dragged into the great hall, facing up to those allegations.

“Surely by then Jon will be back,” Sansa relented, providing an equally dubious and sincere answer.

“I’m positive that once they have dealt the with parley, there will be no more to hold your brother South.”

She did not voice out how much she hoped he was right.

For the previous week, the all overwhelming need not to hold all of this responsibility had been as bad as ever before. It was like all her courage had perished simultaneously with Margaery, all her determination and her confidence that she could take whatever was to come.

Considering that, Jon just had to come back in a timely manner. She did not have the energy or spirit within her to take whatever consequences her orders regarding Margaery possibly had.

When Sansa returned to her chambers later that day, she found them empty for the first time in three months.

She stepped into the chamber adjoining hers and looked around. That a vacant room could be so full of someone yet she had not known. It was like Margaery had just stepped out of them a minute ago. Her presences was still in the air, in every item spread throughout the room. From the hair brush that lay on a folded cloth on the side table, to the book that was spread open on the nightstand. The cloak she had been wearing just a day ago hung on a hook on the wall.

Had they taken her outside, across the courtyard without her cloak? The concerned thought brushed through Sansa’s mind before she had a chance to fight it. Margaery must not have assumed that she would be taken outside the keep.

Sansa sat down on the bed, abruptly feeling all strength leave her. Her eye fell onto the green shawl that Margaery had regularly wrapped around her shoulders. The one that Sansa had repeatedly thought became her in the best manner. Brought out the colour of her eyes and her hair. The shawl she had used to hide the truth for the past three months. It was left there not like forgotten, but neatly folded up. Sansa sat there for a while staring at the material of the shawl wound around her fingers.

The first tear dropped onto the green linen darkening the material, and she studied it with a sense of curiosity. Then a second followed, and a third, and before she knew her sight turned too blurry to still see count them. There were too many to count anyway. The sob that worked itself up her throat in a painful way and she silenced it by pressing the shawl against her face, burying it in there as if it was Margaery’s warmth. 

The energy she had held up so strenuously for a week, vanished into thin air in that moment. With the shawl still tightly clenched in her hands she curled up on Margaery’s bed, sinking into her scent that persisted in the sheets, and just for this small moment allowed herself to not be strong, but to mourn what she had lost, what she had surrendered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I'll duck out quietly here and hope that you don't delete your subscription to this story. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading. I'm dying to here what you think of what has happened in this chapter. Please, please share. I also will take curse words, if it is what you need to get of your chest.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It comes close to a small miracle that I’m updating tonight already. I had a bit of a visit marathon from friends and family and honestly thought that I’d get no writing at all done. But thanks to some calmer times and work and my wonderful beta working in lightspeed – here we go. Enjoy!

Lacking any warmth, that was the best way to describe the chamber they had taken her to. Not just in an actual sense, as the fire that had been set up in the chimney did little to heat up the room- yet, hopefully. On the surface it was a lot more comfortable than the servant chamber she had lived in. The furniture was finer, it was more spacious, the spare decoration perhaps out of fashion, but nonetheless elegant and precious. If it wasn’t for the bareness. It held the sheer necessities. A bed. A simple table with two chairs, a large wooden crate and a side table.  The mouldy smell that hung in the clammy air proved no one had occupied it for a long while. She yearned to push the window open and let cool, fresh air inside.

It was conceivable that the coldness she felt came not alone from the chamber itself, but from its location, the sense which grew with being brought here. Being ordered to move here. It had not come unexpected for Sansa to want her moved from her chambers, and at the same time blindsided her completely. It was demoralizing, a cut made that she wished wouldn’t come, and now that it was here, she had no plan where to move from here. The fear that she had lost Sansa was crushing.

Still, she had thanked the guards who had brought her here politely, and the expression they showed her should have already been a source of irritation, but the awareness that something was off only struck her once the door closed and she heard the echo of the lock turning.

For a note, she stood there frozen with an all too familiar dread settling in her gut. With a shake of her head, she charged to the door and tested the handle only to discover that the door would not budge. Still, she turned down the understanding to settle in her mind. It had to be a mistake. Perhaps a misunderstanding?

Only after a moment of remaining there with the cool metal still in her fingers, she grasped how it fit all too well into the ghastly sense of apprehension that had made her restless since yesterday. Only she yet did not manage to understand what to make of it, no perception in her mind what it meant.

She ordered herself not to panic, not to overreact; not until she had further information. Letting go of the door handle she twisted around and still stayed there taking in the chamber with different eyes. On a second glance, it served its purpose of a prison cell. The sporadic equipping was fitting, as was the crisp uncomfortable air. The chill she felt suddenly had a portion less to do with the absence of warmth, the meagre fire, or the high ceilings.

What in the seven hells was going on?

She wondered if Sansa was aware they had taken her here. Her escorts had mentioned carrying out the Lady Stark’s request, but as severely as she racked her head she could not reach something she had done to deserve this. There was no ambiguity that she had upset Sansa, deeply so, perhaps irreversibly, but that yet did not resolve what she was doing here. Why they had locked her in here.

For the absence of anything else to do, Margaery dropped onto a chair, folded her hands on the table, and waited. For what she didn’t resolve. A justification perhaps, or better yet a clarification, liberation in the best case. Her mind longed to jump to conclusions which she refused herself. They would have to provide her some explanation sooner or later, everything else would just upset her.

Her expectation was not disappointed; it was not long until the tone of the door bolt broke the silence in the room. Only, Arya Stark appearing with a stern face in the doorframe did not indicate that what was progressing on here was a misunderstanding. Her posture was rigid and inaccessible as she took her in calmly.

Margaery was mindful to keep her face neutral as she held Arya’s serious look on herself.

“You impressed me yesterday,” Arya spoke without a greeting, as she took a couple of steps towards her, a hand on the blade belted to her hip.

“I’d assume either too much or too little, given this development of my circumstances,” Margaery returned keeping her eyes tracked on Arya as she strolled over to the window.

Arya threw her a brief look over her shoulder. “You are certainly skilled with words, exceedingly precise with phrasing what you wish to convey. So good at reasoning. Like when you convinced me to trust my sister. I think you will be content to hear that I took your advice.”

Margaery did not waver, but simply straightened her shoulders. “I meant it, every word.”

“I know you did,” Arya replied deliberately, turning around with the hint of a smile. “Ultimately, there is no one better to warn us of threats than those who present the strongest one.”

The more information Arya granted her, the more worried Margaery felt, the more her initial spirit faltered. Whatever the reason for her incarceration was, it implied to be significant. Not a misconception, not a delayed overreaction to hurting Sansa.

“I’m not a threat,” Margaery yielded with a shake of her head.

“We discovered letters that suggest otherwise.”

“What letters?”

“Very carefully composed ones,” Arya stated in a calmness that appeared alarming in light of the dreadful apprehension Margaery struggled to contain. “In your handwriting, addressed to all the great houses of the Reach, pleading for a support in an upheaval against Cersei, guaranteeing the support of House Stark given by Sansa in bringing the last king’s legitimate heir to the throne.”

Margaery let the words settle and landed at the realisation that she had been right in her apprehension that something bad was about to arise. Particularly the course it took seized her completely by surprise.

She shook her head not leaving Arya out of her sight for a moment. “Those were not written by myself.”

“By whom then?”

“Perhaps you are a fool after all,” Margaery breathed, giving her best to collect herself, as she was not in a position where she could give into discomposure of any kind. “I warned you of Lord Baelish yesterday.”

“You did.” Arya just gave a small nod of her head and watched at Margaery with challenging eyes.

The unrelenting look Arya gave her produced a churning in Margaery’s stomach. She’d warned her of the false thing. Had cautioned her to be careful about false things. What Littlefinger had set in motion had perhaps never been about Sansa and Arya, or if it had been, he’d altered his plan. When Brienne had left, Margaery had been concerned the safety of either of the Stark sisters, not so much for her own.

That conclusion terrified her, so extremely, for a minute she neglected all that common sense or pride would prevent her any other day. With three swift steps she passed her way to Arya and wrapped her hands around both of her wrists tightly.

“I need to speak to Sansa.” Her approach was solely a note away from begging and yet commanding.

“I don’t expect you will be able to tell her anything she does not know yet,” Arya resumed cool shaking her grip off with about as much sympathy and struggle as if she was only a fly on her sleeve.

“You need to listen to me,” Margaery insisted following Arya in her steps towards the door, passed her by and cut off her path a portion more agile than even she would have predicted given her bodily constitution. She balled her hands up to tight fists as she spoke insistently. “I _swear_ I did not write those letters. Don’t you recognize that this is precisely what Baelish wanted, what I warned you of?”

“You shouldn‘t agitate yourself so much in your condition,” Arya returned, her mocking her at such a sharp degree it almost sounded like she sincerely concerned for her wellbeing. With already the door latch in her hand she let it slide to whirl around one more time and took a step towards Margaery, looking her straight in the eye.  “If you did not write them, then you have nothing to fear, don’t you?”

Arya gave her a lingering look, one that ran through and through, those dark eyes more fierce than ever before, as she stepped first past her and later the guard that blocked to exit from the outside. The door was shut in front of Margaery. One more time there was the cruel sound of the bolt closing, merely this time the dismay that appeared with it was a thousandfold.

She wanted to heave herself against the door. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. She wanted to collapse to the floor and cry. But she simply remained there for the longest moment, staring at the door that sealed her prison, frozen in terror at what had ensued, of the sheer unbelievable situation she was in.

This was madness pure and simple. It was worse than that. Madness was anarchic and not planned, this was organised vileness. Something carefully planned and orchestrated to get rid of her.

It took forever until her mind commenced to serve again like she required it to.

The child was moving and kicking in her womb, even more so than regular, and that gradually drew her from her trance. It caused her an odd feel of comfort and soreness at the same stage. It served as a sign she wasn’t as alone as she felt, merely that was her dilemma, the fact that had contributed to bring all of this into faction.

In this juncture, she recognized that desperation should have been her first and foremost thought, but not even particularly gradually, that flicker of exasperation flamed into plain fury. She was resentful at the child that kicked away inside her like nothing had changed, like it wasn’t the reason she was in this position in the first place.

It wasn’t logical, or beneficial, but with every wave of resentment that pulsed through her soul she regained a portion of strength.

It was misplaced anger no doubt, a projection of fury she held against herself, her own tremendous stupidity, but just for this instant she was angry at the entire world and felt it was her proper right. She was angry at everybody that had played a part in bringing her where she was right now. She was angry at Loras for not being strong enough to survive and leaving her to endure all this alone, when she needed him more than she had ever before. At Cersei who’d stripped her of a home, a family, which had driven her into this mess. She felt pure hate for Tommen, who’d impregnated her with a kid she did not want or ever wanted, but which she now had to carry and which had made a previously complicated situation even more impossible.

She was angry with Sansa.

A day ago Sansa had declared she was furious with her, now Margaery very much returned that sentiment. After _everything_ , how could Sansa believe that she had such depravity in her, such mendacity. Not alone did she believe Lord Baelish over her, but she likewise was ready to condemn her for a transgression she had not committed, without even hearing her out first?

The problem was that the resentment towards Sansa was not as vitalising as any other, because what she could not shake off was the image of how Sansa felt in all of this. No matter that the accusations against her were untrue, if Sansa believed them, Margaery was positive that they had left her devastated and her heart ached only even thinking about that.

The anger towards Sansa was short-lived. She could not be bitter at her, felt too much else for her, had too much of a bad conscience over how she had pained her to hold onto that for longer than a couple of deep breaths.

Especially not when she knew for the one man who she recognized without a doubt was responsible.

She had no idea how Petyr Baelish had found out about her pregnancy in the first place, how he had forged her writing, or how he had gotten Sansa to trust in him more than her, and it did not matter, not really. All of this had evidently been his doing and somehow she needed to prove that.

The prospect of purely the chance to get herself out of this position, to prove her innocence, even if she had no approach of how to bring that about, brought some composure to Margaery. With that goal in mind, she did her best to breathe the remains of her anger away, because she knew right now all it did was cloud her senses, when she needed her wits about herself, more than ever.

With that in mind, part of Margery’s willpower was forced back to life, and movement finally returned to her body. She shoved open the window cover for much needed fresh air. It was pitch dark outside, and all she could spot were the snow-covered trees of the Gods Wood in the moonlight.

Margaery had sufficient knowledge of the outlay of Winterfell to perceive precisely where she was. She’d looked at the steep walls of the Guest House from the outside before. There was no fleeing from here.

She rested on the windowsill and drew her fingers against the granite wall.

It was at that point, with the fresh air finally clearing her mind sufficiently, that she concluded not to tolerate herself lethargy of any kind, let alone self-pity. She had survived too much to be now brought down by made up accusations.

This was not the first time she had been a prisoner, only this time she had little to no idea what she could do to save herself from this. She was certainly a lot more comfortable, but ironically, unlike the last time, innocent to what they denounced her of. And unlike last time, she did not know how to get out of this. The High Sparrow had wanted her to confess, had wanted her to change her ways, wanted to see her repentant. At this stage there was nothing for her to do, merely the contemplating of figuring out how to turn this all around for herself.

The first week in her imprisonment stretched out endlessly.

She still spent the majority of her days sitting by the window looking down into the Gods Wood. Sometimes she saw figures walking in the distance, but too far away, too many branches in the way in the end to make anyone out. A couple of times she thought that she saw Sansa there, but could never be quite sure.

In the most ludicrous way, her prison became more comfortable within a couple of days. She found herself presented with virtually all the comforts she had enjoyed before. From her standard toiletries like ointments, hairpins, to most of her wardrobe, she did not want for anything. The food served to her was not alone presented on superior quality dishes, but likewise offered a selection of variety that missed nothing of what they had provided her when she taken her meals with Sansa. Fresh bread, salted meats, cheese, some smoked meat and fish, and pickled vegetables and syruped fruits. A reasonable sized jar of various beverages every day. The candle holder was set up with new candles regularly, along with a small wooden crate, containing at least a dozen more.

Considering the position she was in, Margaery was prudent not to make too much of small details, but all of this practically radiated Sansa to her. And that despite all, she still cared for her wellbeing.

One did not grant someone who you considered guilty of treason too big amenities. Right?

She didn’t let it ease her mind too much, but it took some of the dread she had felt.

An idea how to move forward, a plan what to do next, established rather swiftly in her mind, merely slowed by the fact that it was nothing she could bring into force right away; it demanded patience.

There were plenty of points in her history when Margaery had needed to be patient. Waiting for the day when she would at last be queen had been nothing but a waiting game. Her time in King’s Landing, when she had been a captive in the dungeons of the sept, could draw out to the point where she expected she would lose her mind. Her lengthy recovery and her straining travels to Winterfell had been not considerably better. Margaery could be patient when needed, nevertheless this kind of persistence, which was needed of her right now, was different.

As there was nothing to distract herself, nothing to pass the time, an hour could stretch out forever. With no books, no craftwork, not even - ridiculous at it may sound - the burning thirst or hunger she had suffered in the dungeons, Margaery soon found she had to get creative in order to not go mad.  Everything she did soon developed into a game. The way she ate her meals, the way she sipped her drinks, the way she dressed and undressed herself.

She relied on her imagination through significant parts of the day. A lot of times imagining, playing out conversations she recognized she would have to prepare herself for, that where coming sooner or later, whether it was with Lord Baelish, with Sansa, perhaps even with the King in the North. She played variables, examined what to say and what not say, strengthened arguments that would determine her innocence and more importantly Lord Baelish’s fault.

Sometimes that kept her busy for the majority of a day.

Something that developed along with this isolation was that she found that her sentiments towards the child – no, _her_ child – shifted, were no longer only negative, but every so often a positive thought snuck its course into her conscious. Because even though it was not the legitimate human contact she sought, as the babe could not give her company or respond, with the kicks and the movements it appeared somewhat like it.

She noticed the way it showed to have a mind of its own already. Kicked her particularly hard when she slept or seated in specific positions, was always - absolutely always - earlier awake than her, and woke her with kicks, which let her suspect she was growing a bit of an early riser there.

Occasionally she started to talk to it. Mostly when she had just woken up, which made it simpler, easing into it; and after a week Margaery spoke to the child several times a day. She didn’t even realise it half the time, but she just did. She would comment on the food, talk about what she looked at in the Gods Wood, complain when her belly kept her from finding a convenient position to lie or sit in.

It became part of her everyday routine, one of the elements that sustained her from losing her mind and something she even somewhat enjoyed before she realised it.

At the same stage she observed this strange change with a definite skepticism to it. Talking to this child, hells, even bearing something like tenderness for it, was not part of her plan. Seemed like something she should not encourage. A couple of weeks ago, all she had found in herself was disdain and discontent. Maybe even hostility. Now suddenly, she indeed found herself wondering. Wondering whether she would have a boy or a girl. What they would look like. Whether they have her brown curls or Tommen’s golden hair.

Yet even if the child offering some resolve, the absence of human contact was eating away at her. There were entirely so many points one could weigh over arguments or exchanges in your mind, or talk to oneself or an unborn child, before it felt like one were a lunatic.

After Arya had surrendered her to her own resolves, no one talked to her.

The maids that served her a tray with fresh food and drinks, who refilled her wash basin, swapped the candles, were succeeded by other people every day, as where the patrols who kept watch outside her door.

The concept was certainly thought through, she recognized with a hint of admiration. Sansa knew her strength was luring people in, chatting them up with smooth words. Not allowing her a chance to get to know someone better put a close to that before it could start. There was likewise never anyone alone in the chamber with her, most feasible as a measure of the servants controlling each other. This way, even with cordial and pleasant words and looks that Margaery offered them, she rarely ever received better than a very curt response.

Margaery did not let that discourage her. Even if the servants could have been a valuable way to pick up knowledge of what was progressing on outside this chamber or pass some messages of herself to the outside, she had no measures to get them to do that, no coins on her, or anything of value to bribe them. And she was not nearly desperate enough to start any attempt to employ whatever female advantages she yet carried in her more and more plumb growing form.

They were not what would get her out of this chamber. She needed to talk with someone, someone who held influence, who’d have Sansa’s attention.

The way to do that was obvious and simple.

Her pregnancy might have been what forced her into this, but perhaps it could likewise be her saving grace. In all of this at last the child she was bearing was her trump card, if yet differently than she had foreseen it. It was the reason they accommodated her so comfortably. Undoubtedly if it was not for it, she would find herself in a far less amicable living condition. As of right now, her child protected her from any repercussions of false accusations.

The servants could ignore her and her appeals for bringing a message to Sansa, finally they could not ignore an issue or complication that emerged in her state of health.

From the second day of her confinement she pushed the plot into action.

For one part she observed the maids and the guards closely, distinguished every small details that surrounded their calls to her chamber. Even while the individuals varied, what they did hardly ever did, and neither did the hours they came to visit her. She kept particular notice of the stand of rays of daylight drew across the floor as an indicator to know when she could expect them.

For the other part she was attentive to consistently display a picture of perfect composure. The servants who came to visit her may have altered, but Margaery knew that there was talk beneath the personnel about such a scandalous highborn prisoner as herself. Perhaps even an exhaustive report about her behaviour to Sansa or Lord Baelish.

One way or the other, someone certainly kept record of her behaviour and it was best to build up as much trust as she could by playing the meagre and sorrowful prisoner. She was regarded as guilty by the world, and claims of innocence would accomplish nothing but antagonise those around her, annoy them to where they found her even less trustworthy. A graceful sense of regret was what she needed to present to them, not much of a menace or opposition.

For nine days she made certain to be invariably in the very same spot when the door opened. Wrapped in a fur on the windowsill looking outside into the Gods Wood. A superb picture of reflective tranquillity.

On the ninth day she commenced to overturn that routine. For the first time she left most of the meal untouched.  Her, almost annoyingly so, healthful appearance she altered with simple techniques. She used powder sugar she had scraped off a pastry to make her complexion seem paler, and with the wedge of a beet using the juice to spread beneath her eyes, giving them sickly dark circles.

On the tenth day she added a change of position to her sickly complexion. Instead of usual spot by the window when the door opened in the morning she stood in front of the fire place, one hand supporting herself on the mantle, the other one on her stomach. When the door opened, she took just the deliberate two heartbeats for the maid to see her feigned expression of discomfort melt into a forced smile.

The maid took the bait so easily, Margaery almost felt sorry for her

“Are you feeling fine, milady?”

Straightening her stand, Margaery nodded and held her palms out to the fire as if she was warming them. “Just feeling cold today, that is all.”

Even though the girl appeared not assured, her wish to leave the room again outweighed her consideration for Margaery’s wellbeing and so she nodded and returned to her task.

When the door opened in the evening again she drew it one step further and let herself be discovered laying on top of her bed, fully dressed, a hand still over her abdomen, facing away from the door like she wished to disguise the discomfort she was in.

The exchange of the morning repeated; they asked her if she was feeling well and she gave them a meagre excuse that did not fit the picture of discomfort she presented.

On the morning of the eleventh day, she dishevelled herself a bit further, letting her hair hang loose and tousled around her face, putting only limited care into lacing up her dress properly. When the light that spilled into the room reached the fifth floor board she draped herself in the corner by the window, standing there waiting for the door to open. One hand against the wall, one against her stomach in a gesture that could be interpreted as a normal caressing movement, but likewise as a measure of relief pain. Her face suggested discomfort, accurately balanced with the attempt of needing to conceal it.

Once the maid was in the room and cleaned the table of untouched food, Margaery felt her eyes on her regarding her more strictly than any other day. With this already achieved she lingered in the spot only a note longer, forced an obviously feigned smile on her lips as she turned to sit on the bed, slow, inhaling only a little heavier than natural as she sat down, waited a moment before she placed a palm on her abdomen.

To the inquiring look the girl showed her she presented a terse smile, like she wished to appear that everything was all right, she spotted mild irritation, but then continuing to the gathering her of plates her hands were doing.

The cup stood by the window where she had arranged it the night before and she waited until the maid had picked up the tray with the dishes and as if she’d just spotted it, had to her feet to reach for it.

“You missed this,” she said quietly and concluded her twirling around in a particularly elaborate, yet subtle clutching of her stomach and groan, the expression on her face indicating that she was resolved not to let them to see this discomfort.

The girl seemed reluctant and lowered the tray in her hands. “Are you all right, milady?”

Margaery gave a brave smile and nod, seized two cautious steps towards the maid and placed the cup on the tray. “I’m fine-“ like a fresh wave of discomfort struck her in that flash she placed both hands on her stomach.

“I will send for the Maester.”

Margaery shook her head. “That is unnecessary. It’s just heavy kicks.” And with those words she doubled over in another suppressed wave of pain, merely reaching the footboard of the bed to support herself.

She had her eyes closed, but heard the clattering of the tray as it was hurriedly brought down on the table, and she only barely contained a delighted smile. A hand stroked her back as the girl turned up next to her.

“That appears not like kicks, more like labour,” the girl told to her.

Margaery blinked up with uneasy eyes filled with tears. “It can’t be,” she exhaled with despair in her statement.

The maid only considered for a moment longer. “Get the Maester,” she ordered towards the guard who remained in the open door seemingly profoundly uneasy with what was transpiring. ”Inform him she might be in labour.”

“It’s too soon,” Margaery said with a shake of her head as heavy steps moved away already.

For a flash, when the guard departed from the door, Margaery contemplated overthrowing all she had plotted and seeking to run out of the chamber, only to dissolve it a moment afterward, perceiving she would not make it far, virtually hopeless to make it close enough to Sansa.

The gentle and caring way the maid led her to the bed almost gave Margaery a bad conscious. Not getting to know more than the servant's face worked both ways around, it seemed. The girl was young, seemed timid, undecided what to do, and yet wanted to provide her consolation.

“Perhaps it is just heavy kicks,” the maid spoke. “But it would be best to be safe of that, wouldn’t it?”

Nodding with endurance Margaery brushed both hands over the swell of her stomach, contouring her face ever so faintly in insincere discomfort.

It took not long for Maester Wolkan to arrive in her chamber. In a strange way his appearance indeed comforted her; even if she had not actual physical complaints, it was that she was yet important enough to be cared for by the Maester.

“Milady, I will need you to disrobe so I can examine you.”

Margaery placed some carefully dosed reluctance into her face, her eyes briefly darting to the maid and the guard who still stood inside the room, even as her hands reached for the clamps that kept her gown together over her chest.

The Maester observed it, tentative and thoughtful, evidently going against orders they had given him, but turned to the two servants, nevertheless. “Allow us some privacy please.”

The maid looked uncertain, and the guard already shook his head resolutely. “We were ordered to not-“

Her guess had been correct, there was an order in place not to leave her alone with anyone.

“It’s fine,” Margaery chimed in with a shake of her head and opened the claps of her dress at last. It would be simpler if she could talk with the Maester under four eyes, but she could make it serve her purpose either way. “I just wish to know that all is all right, it’s not important if someone else is in the room.”

Maester Wolkan looked at her and thus shook his head. “No, this is a matter of dignity,” he announced finally and turned to the two people standing by the door. “Please leave us alone. I’ll hold the responsibility.”

Margaery gave him a grateful smile as the door closed, leaving them alone. “Thank you Maester, I appreciate it.”

He offered her a slight smile as he seated on her bedside. “Prisoner or not, this is a sensitive matter.”

As instructed Margaery disrobed from her gown and lay back in the bed in only her undergarment. The Maester examined her thoroughly. His hands moving over her belly, pressing and pushing to obtain a precise picture of the child's position, and a conclusion if her stated discomforts were indeed birth pains.

“Have you been examined at all in this pregnancy?”

 “I foolishly gave my best to conceal this condition from anybody for the longest time.”

He looked pensive as once again his hands palpated against the sides of her abdomen. “And it is your first child? Your first pregnancy?”

She nodded again, noticing something in his eyes she did not like, that prompted concern in her.

“How long has it been since your last blood?”

“Over seven months as far as I can recall.” Even before the wildfire her body had been in turmoil, yet unsettled from the strain of being a prisoner to the continuous pressure that the High Sparrow produced, the perpetual threat from Cersei and concern for her brother.

Something on his face troubled her. Was there a hint of uneasiness? For an instant she forgot how she wanted this interaction with the Maester to play out, instead considered a variety more reasons that not getting examined until now was the most unwise choice of her life.

“What is it?” she urged.

“Nothing to fret about. You are yet carrying relatively high, so I’d say the birth is not close yet. At the very least another month away. What you are suffering is most likely something called false labour. It can look like the same to someone who’s never experienced real one before.”

Margaery nodded, not particularly feeling at ease, but at the same point also reluctant to inquire further, instead she pushed herself to go back on course.  

“I’m glad,” she declared and formed a grimace. “I’m fearful of the birth.”

“You are young and strong,” he noted her with genuine sympathy to her fear. “You should not worry overly.”

She pushed herself up and cradled her stomach looking down at it with a wistful smile. “I know. Perhaps it is not so much the birth, but what might happen after. For myself and the babe.” She let tears ascend to her eyes as she lifted her face to look at him. “I’m terrified, Maester. …  I did not compose those letters, and I’m scared that I will not discover the means to let Lady Sansa recognise that.”

He looked uncomfortable with her upset emotional state, but not altogether untouched. “If it is true that you are innocent, then I'm confident it will be proven.”

Margaery chuckled without joy, wiping at her eyes. “We both know that people are judged every day for crimes they did commit.”

“This is not King’s Landing, milady,” he reminded her. “The Lady Stark is just, as is the King in the North.”

Margaery hesitated again for the duration of precisely two breaths. “I presume I’d go too far asking you to give a message to Lady Sansa?” Despite the apparent reluctance that became visible on his face she went on. “Tell that I require to see her? So I can have a chance to resolve myself.”

 “Forgive me Lady Margaery, but I know better than to become entangled in something like this. I’m pledged to House Stark.”

“Indeed more reason to support me,” she declared. “Someone is playing a false game with the Lady Sansa, with House Stark and as long as I’m sitting here innocent the true threat remains out there. I’m losing my mind thinking about that.”

“Even if I believed you—”

Margaery did not let him finish, but reached for his hand, wrapping her fingers around his tightly. “I beseech you Maester, what wrong could come from it? In the best case for me she’ll come to hear me out, in the worst case she doesn’t. I vow on my life and that of my child I haven’t done what I’m being charged with. But even if you chose not believe me, what damage could I create by speaking to her?”

A bunch, she reflected in the same heartbeat, remembering the way Sansa had looked at her the day they’d met in the Sept.

“I can understand that you’re desperate, but I cannot go against orders of Lady Stark more than I already have.”

Margaery swallowed and nodded, putting on a tearful smile as she released her grip on him. “I apologise. I don’t want to bring you in that position, of course not. I had little confidence you would to begin with. But I owed it myself and this child to at least try. So far it protects me and I protect it, but that won’t be the case for much longer.”

She drew in an unsteady breath to contain herself, a little startled herself with how many sincere emotions this alleged act sparked within her, realising that what she was saying hit closer to home than she had granted herself to see.

“Have confidence in Lady Stark’s judgement,” Maester Wolkan recommended.

“You are right, I know you are,” Margaery expressed with some returning determination to her voice. She offered a repentant expression. “It is exceedingly cordial to soothe my nerves. I’m afraid with no diversion here I’m starting to surrender my sanity.”

He hesitated and considered before speaking. “I’m sorry that it is all I can offer you.”

“I don’t wish to be ungrateful. Calming my nerves that my child and I are in good health is already a substantial relief.”

“I will check on you in a couple of days' time.”

To that Margaery conducted a nicely balanced genuine expression. “That is very kind of you. I appreciate it.”

When the door closed behind him Margaery sank back against the headboard with a contentment settling in her chest. This had gone, practically exactly like she wished it would. She had never seen any legitimate chance in bringing the Maester Wolkan to conspire on her behalf, do her any favours or break any vows for her; that would have been very farfetched. His sympathy was of much higher value than delivering any words that would most likely fall on indifferent ears anyway.

It was rejoicing in a sense that she yet had this within herself, to influence people to her advantage. Any time before in her life, when she’d sought to lure men onto her side, she’d done so by ways of flirting or persuasion. Appealing to someone’s sympathy was nothing she’d ever required before.

For too long she had underestimated how much kindness a weeping young woman, a desperate young mother, could provoke. She would not forget it again. The role of the caring, distressed mother-to-be was unfamiliar, but had come to her easy still, perhaps because it was not altogether an act anymore.

Now the waiting was back, at least for a while. The Maester would come back, and as simple it had been to rise his compassion today, the next time would be even smoother. Gradually developing a connection to him would be useful in the days to come. He would report to Sansa about his visit to her, and those to come. If she was patient, if she played her cards right, she saw good chances to get an opportunity to speak with Sansa eventually.

The morning of the fourteenth day she sat down, as always, on the side table for her morning toilet, brushing her hair back, splashing fresh water into her face to wake herself up. As she reached for the towel to wipe her face, she caught something slipping from the linen cloth as it unfolded it. With still sleepy eyes she frowned, only to have a moment thereafter the towel slip from her fingers altogether.

Next to the washbasin, heretofore concealed in the folded material, laid a beautifully blossomed Brimstone rose.

Margaery’s breath stopped and her heart sped up all at once. She pressed a hand against her lips to contain the gasp of surprise that came close to a restrained whimper. For a moment she just stared at it, reluctant to move, frightened she was imagining things now, scared that it would dissolve if she blinked.

With trembling fingers she reached for it at last and held the fragile flower between them, admiring it from all sides as if it was the first occasion she saw a rose in her life.

She did not know what it meant, what it symbolised, but she was absolutely certain that this was a message from Sansa. For the first time in a fortnight, Margaery allowed herself to hope. To sincerely hope that this would end well for her, for them. That Sansa had not surrendered all faith in her, but that she knew and believed in her innocence.

It was a lot to translate into a simple flower, but it was the first true stray of confidence in too long and she would hold onto it with every ounce of strength she had left.

She inhaled in the essence and relinquished in it. It smelled like hope, like better and happier times. Something that should reside with her throughout the rest of the day, merely to be ripped from her later that same day.

The gentle knock on the door so late at night took her by wonder. The maids didn’t knock, nor did the guards. No one bothered with that, she was a prisoner and therefore not worthy of any tokens of respect. She remained at the table with a cup of wine in front of her, the rose still in her hands, as it had been for the whole day and her heart skipped a few beats and then she felt it fluttering in her chest.

Could it be…?

Disappointment washed over her so direly it made her stomach turn when she spotted the last person she wished to look at in the door. The resentment that flickered up at the sight of Lord Baelish, she did not allow herself, nor the dread.

In an instinct she concealed the rose with her hand to shield it from his notice. She still did not understand the significance behind the flower, but with him showing up here counted its relevance now even higher than before, alike if she could not fathom it in its entirety. Him being here did hardly mean anything positive.

He granted her a light bow in greeting and approached the table, hovering over her then in a way she could not help but consider as intimidating. “Lady Margaery.”

“Lord Baelish,” she greeted equally cordial, and a portion calmer than she truly felt. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

With a patronising smile he plied his arms behind his back and tipped his head to the side. “I wanted to see how you are holding up.”

“Comfortable despite my circumstances,” she retorted and almost provokingly brushed a palm over her stomach. He would not harm her, not as long as she was with child, not even was that cunning, or at the very least she hoped so. “And growing fairly rapidly.”

There was almost something like fondness for her bold attitude in his expression. “I’m pleased to hear so. Reports from the recent days had us concerned.”

 _Us_ was presumed to be referring to himself and Sansa, no doubt. A reminder he was yet constantly by her side and had been for the preceding days. She could not give in to the hatred that set off within her, just as she could not allow it to bother her that he had such concrete knowledge about her wellbeing. For now he enjoyed the upper hand whether or not she liked it, and there was no room for resentment or foolishness.

“I suppose I’m not the most convenient prisoner,” she conceded.

He smirked, almost kindly. “I never expected you to be.”

She produced a poisonous sweet smile. “It is encouraging that you are checking on my wellbeing,” she remarked.

He passed a regretful face. “Long outstanding I’m afraid, however I have to relent, not supported by Lady Sansa.”

A blessing more than the infortune he made it sound like, Margaery thought. Any other time he’d come to see her, where he’d agitated her with well-chosen words of manipulation she had been capable to leave that situation. Now she was not so fortuitous.

“It is my fortune you chose to defy her in this.”

“I considered for a while,” Baelish declared. “Your treachery has troubled her a vast deal.”

“You know exceedingly well I am not the one to liable for that.”

Littlefinger looked profoundly entertained. Yes, he knew that, but it was not the purpose of this visit to admit that to her. What the purpose was she could not tell. Perhaps to offer her some kind of agreement? Perhaps just to agonizer her. She loathed being at his mercy like that.

“If someone forged those letters, it would be troublesome to identify who, as they’d be conceding to a severe transgression.”

She inclined her head. So it was a negotiation. A shrewd smile played on her face as she concluded she needed to find out what he offered. “I assume so. But everyone has their price.”

A smirk from him told her she was not mistaken.

“But not everyone is prepared to pay it.”

He was not wrong there, any price he named would be high. He had not brought her into this situation to just change his mind now and let her off unscathed, the stakes had built up too high for that now, for certain he had devoted very much time and energy.

“You underestimated my will to get out of this situation,” she told him with fierce eyes. “I have not survived what I survived to pay for a crime I did not commit.”

With a superior expression he sat down on the chair opposite her, sneering at her as he leaned back, folding his hands. “While I always admire a woman’s willingness to sell herself like a painted whore, it is not what I’m here for.”

The words moved all of her senses to high alert. Him not interested in any kind of negotiation was not good, because it meant she was of no use for him anymore. With all her spirit she fought the anxiety this evoked.

“What then?” Her hand planted more firmly against the rose beneath it, feeling the thrones piercing at her skin, yet clasping to the faith it symbolised what she believed. That Sansa still cared, that she knew she was innocent, that she would not tolerate any harm to her.

He reached across the table for the cup of wine, having a sip from it, an expression of recognition crossing his face. “This is better wine than served even in the large houses in the North.”

She peeked at him in silence.

“You must admit that your circumstances here are considerably amiable.”

Was that a threat? He could make her conditions here a lot worse and there was nothing she could do about it.  To be at the mercy of him of all people was not a pleasant circumstance.

“You can consider yourself lucky that Sansa possesses such a kind spirit. Other places, traitors are handled with a lot less generosity.” For a note she looked into the cup in his hands and swirled the wine around. “The treatment that Cersei bestowed upon Ellaria Sand comes to mind. Have you heard what she did?”

Margaery shook her head. No. How could she? But she concluded that it would be more than a slap on the fingers. Way more.  

“She chained her up in the dungeons, forcing her to see her daughter die, to watch her body rot.”

She would not permit him to let the horror she perceived appear on her face, yet she could grasp the pleasure he had drawing this image to her mind.

“Granted perhaps still more humane than having Septa Unella tormented to death by the Mountain.”

Her eyes narrowed eyes at him. So was that what he had planned for her?

“Then of course,” he continued on, “I expect in Cersei’s eyes merely the fit punishment for their transgressions.”

The desperation to mask her fear made Margaery brash, more so than she was deemed to be, given her circumstances. “Too bad so many people do not receive the appropriate punishment for _their_ transgressions.”

He smiled, like he had thought the same thing just then. “I marvel what fate Cersei would find appropriate for you.”

It took all her energy not to let fear obscure her mind over what he implied. She was resolved not to let him scare her. Cersei was not a threat to her. She didn’t even know she was still alive, and alike if she did, she was far away.  Most importantly Sansa would never let that happen. Her fingers clutched around the rose in her palm, hanging onto that thought.  

“I’d expect it would hinge on how she’d receive the news about you making her a grandmother.”

Margaery had had a lifetime to think about that and the scenarios were all but pleasant. Should Cersei get her in her hands in her current condition there was no telling what she would do. If she found any kind of affection for her grandchild in herself perhaps she’d leave her alive long enough to reach her due date, before cutting the child out of her, leaving her to die. Or she’d kill it first and then her. Margaery did not know which was worse.

“But either way I’d imagine she’d be delighted with the opportunity to kill you a second time. Generous with whomever gives her the opportunity.”

So that was his great plan? He wanted to surrender her to Cersei? No, she decided. That could not be his plan. It held too many variables. For one, Sansa would never allow it. He might have tried to poison her, but she was not merciless.

“Granted you are a month travel away from Kings Landing, even so, I would not let that cloud my judgement.” Like he had caught himself on this fantasy, he cleared the smirk of his face.  “But that is all just hypothetical talk of course.  Sansa cares too much for you still, to have something so heinous done. Then again, you could find yourself in a carriage halfway to White Harbor before anyone noticed you are gone. It would not be very hard to convince anyone here that you bribed your way into an escape.”

At that open threat she finally found her voice. “You do not frighten me Lord Baelish.”

He smiled. “Misplaced courage can be fatal.”

The threat was crystal clear. If she would not be cooperative, she’d be on her way to King’s Landing before she realized it. Margaery considered her response merely a flash. If he was so apparently beyond masking his true aspirations then she had no reason to any longer.

She leaned back in her chair and permitted herself a solemn moment of silence as she studied him. “My pregnancy threw you off didn’t it? This was not what you had in mind for me. I was supposed to buy into the threat of Arya Stark. Be Sansa’s console when you had Sansa at the point where she ordered her own sister to be executed. You thought my craving for power, for revenge was great enough for me to work with you.”

He looked nearly impressed.  “You’re playing a fierce game for someone with no cards left.”

“Having nothing to lose can make you quite courageous.”

“Bravery born of despair,” he mused with a sigh. “That is practically poetic. … It’s funny. I’ve never been terribly courageous, I discovered a long time ago that perseverance is much more profitable.”

“But you are running out of it,” she provoked. “Otherwise you would not be here. Something has developed that does not fit into your plan.”

Something flashed through his eyes for the duration of a heartbeat and let her know she had hit the nail on the head. Still that did not diminish that he had the upper hand, alike if she figured him out a hundred times over.

He on the other hand looked certainly amused and crossed his legs, as if he was preparing himself to hear a compelling anecdote. “And what is my plan?”

“What it has always been, to strengthen your power and influence.”

Whatever transpired, his need for her had altered. When he constructed those letters it had happened in order to disarray her and her influence on Sansa, but perhaps now he supposed her of value again.

He leaned towards her with a canny smile. “Could it not be that I just wish you to be thoroughly educated about all conceivable perils around you? That I solely wish to help you prove your innocence?”

Her eyebrows shot up indicating disbelief. “Because you are such a benefactor of justice.”

“I am indeed,” he declared. “To such a degree you’d be astonished.”

“Justice that fits your own needs,” she resolved.

He shrugged. “That is the kind people prefer in general.”

“Just name your price, Baelish,” she eventually demanded.

“You assume you are in a position to pass requests?”

She looked wistfully, perhaps a little too sure of herself. “You need me, otherwise you would not be here.”

He nodded glancing down at his hands for a flash brushing his thumb along the tip of his fingers, then back at her with dangerously glistening eyes.

“I sympathize with your attempt to get out of this situation with as much control as you can. But I’m afraid that I will have to disappoint you. There is nothing I need you to consider. This is not a negotiation.”

Margaery felt her posture straighten when he rose and went in leisurely strides to the door, revealing two men, both displaying a bulky, threatening posture.

“Merely the offer to be cooperative or not.”

Dread and fear grew within Margaery despite herself, but even though she contemplated her options rationally. She did not stand a chance if those two got their hands on her. She was in no physical condition to try and run, let alone defy them. Calling for help would merely result up with her being hurt. This place was so secluded screaming at the top of lungs would not make a difference; they would have brought her outside with no one noticing.

Her hand tightened around the flower in her hand. She had no chance but to obey. At least for now. Any way out of Winterfell would have to lead through the courtyard. A chance for escape, for defiance was perhaps probable then, in here her chances were not only poor, but hopeless.

She went to her feet and took a thick shawl that lay over the backrest and draped it around herself, hoping that the trembling of her fingers was not noticeable. “Might I ask where we are going?”

Smiling like a wild beast about to devour its prey, he walked behind her and laid a cloak around her shoulders, his breath was touching her ear, making her shudder with revolt, as he spoke softly, scarcely above a whisper. “This cold is not appropriate for you or your child’s wellbeing. Somewhere with a milder climate, further South will do you good.”

He stepped backward and immediately strong hands wrung around both of her upper arms, the constraints were not overly strong, but certainly carried the assurance they could snap her arms like a twig if required, should she attempt any antics.

The corridors they moved her through were pitch black, merely for once she had sufficient amount of anxiety cursing through her body that it did not affect her, that she did not even notice. Her heart was racing, likewise were her thoughts.

It was late at night, few people would still be up and around, if any at all. Probability was that Lord Baelish had established for the courtyard to be empty. He did not take chances. He could get her out of Winterfell with no one noticing until dawn, perhaps even beyond that. In a fast carriage she’d be gone rather a distance until then.

Not courage, but perseverance was essential he had suggested. Perhaps that was the best advice he could have given her. Any wrong placed courage now would merely result in her being injured or restrained, or both. The way South was long, in an unharmed state her chance to escape was a lot better then, than in the limited time she still had left in Winterfell.

Still, alike with this vague idea in mind, she inhaled sharply as she found herself in front of a cart waiting right by the exit of the guest house. No four steps away from where she stood. He had surrendered nothing up to chance.

He stood before her thus with an elated look on his features.

“We must part ways here. I’m afraid I cannot escort you. I expect the Lady Sansa will be quite disturbed to learn of your disappearance and someone must tend to her in this hour of sorrow. Perhaps I can redeem some of the _confusion_ you caused her.”

Alone the thought of him laying a finger on Sansa had her blood boiling and had her neglect all that was smart and safe given her situation. At the absence of alternatives, she spat in his face right there and then. Found it the sole way to convey her rage, her desperation; and was momentarily immensely satisfied with the ever consistent smirk slipping off his face.

He recovered his composure only moments thereafter, swiftly cleaning his face with a handkerchief and smiled at her. “Anger is not a wise counsellor.” He backhanded her across the face so unexpectedly and brutally for a moment she saw flashes before her eyes, and the rose that she had held onto so tightly slipped from her grip onto the snow covered ground. “I expect you to be smarter than that.”

The side of her face throbbed in pain, she thought she even tasted blood and certainly felt dizzy, suddenly weirdly thankful for the solid grip the two men had on her, not confident of her balance anymore. Lord Baelish’s eyes darted from one of her guards to the other and as he nodded, she felt herself pushed forward.

“I wish you safe travels, milady.”

Lord Baelish twisted around and drew the cart’s cover aside, as if he was showing her a courtesy, sending her off to a joyful adventure, the shit-eating grin he was offering her gave away the joy he felt in that moment.

“I’d suggest to wait until dawn.”

Margaery heard her long before her eyes recognised her emerging from the darkness of the cart.

“The conditions are not the best for travelling tonight.”

The look of delight that faded off Littlefinger’s face, merged into first bewilderment and then dread was one of the most satisfactory sights that Margaery had witnessed in her life.

Arya Stark hopped out of the cart and turned to stand in front of Lord Baelish, threat in her eyes, a hand on the sword on her hip. Very briefly she gave Margaery a look that appeared as close to sympathy and regard as she considered her capable of.

Baelish gave a shaky chuckle. “If you’d give me a moment to explain—"

“I’d recommend listening to my sister.” Deliberate slow steps brought Sansa down the stairs from the gallery. “She’s been known to not treat individuals who oppose her very lightly.”

The grips on Margaery’s arms disappeared with a simple glance from Sansa to the men on either side of her. She heard Lord Baelish nervous intake breath as his eyes took in the same things that Margaery’s did. With Sansa’s appearance, half a dozen more men appeared from dark corners within the courtyard, sharpened blades glistened in the moonlight.

Margaery saw and observed in awe what transpired before her eyes, recognised the need in herself to weep in relief, but perceived nothing else.

“I realize how this must look,” Lord Baelish addressed Sansa, “however I ensure that there is a simple explanation.”

“I sympathise with your attempt to get out of this situation with as much control as you can.” Sansa interrupted him as her slow steps carried her towards them. “But I’m afraid that I will have to disappoint you. This is not a negotiation. Merely the offer to be cooperative or not.”

The two men stepped away from Margaery and seized a hold of Lord Baelish instead, who not merely looked like nothing in the world made sense anymore but still shook his head in similar disbelief.

“Sansa, hear me out,” he sought his absolutely best to maintain his poise, but the shift in his tone was unmistakable, adjoining on desperation. “I struggled to stop her from escaping.”

Sansa looked entirely unimpressed and lifted her chin at him with flaming anger in her features. “It looked different from where I was standing. You will have a lot of time in a cell to come up with a better excuse than that. I’m afraid your circumstances will not be _considerably amiable_.”

Margaery was absolutely mesmerised with what was transpiring in front of her eyes, so very so she very much hoped it wasn’t just a dream; that the blow to her face had not left her unconscious and she would soon wake up in a cart halfway to King’s Landing.

With a begging –Margaery had not thought that she would live to see that sight – Lord  Baelish being dragged off towards Winterfell’s dungeon and Margaery found herself still so very stunned she did not find it in herself to move. Still too overwhelmed with what had taken place, and how it had all turned around – to her advantage for the first time in forever.

Sansa stepping closer towards her, woke her from that trance. When she stood in front of her she looked hesitant, not quite meeting her eyes. Just as her lips opened to say something, her eyes flitted to the side as something else caught her attention there. Sansa bent down and emerged with the lost and, from the strong grip in Margaery’s hand, still slightly affected Brimstone rose. She studied it for a moment, her fingers drawing over delicate petals, before gorgeous blue eyes at last darted up to meet Margaery’s.

“We should get inside,” Sansa offered then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo...?   
> I know chapters without any real interactions between the girls can be a bit of a drag, but for one I think the ending sort of made up for that, and also I promise this is the very last one where this was the case. The next one will be Sansaery wonderfulness all the way, I promise.   
> As I said on my Tumblr – I’m slightly ambiguous how to feel about this one. Torn between loving it more than anything I’ve written before and fearing that I’ve irredeemably jumped the shark. What do you guys think? Let me know! Please, please, please! Pretty, please! 😊  
> Okay enough rambling, I will let you get to that comment button.   
> To all of you a wonderful week ahead!


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Sansa moved around her chamber with purpose, yet slowly. She loaded the two cups with mulled wine, assuring that both were at the same filling state, only then she spun around to place them on the table. Still she did not linger there, but instead shifted again and reached for the bowl of crushed ice, took a handful and wrapped it in a piece cotton; only with that in hand did she cease moving at last and look at Margaery, whose eyes she had felt on herself with every step she took.

She faltered for another moment before she sat down at last. Margaery had already taken a sip of the wine and seemed to sink into the fur she had placed over her legs. Sansa’s hand faltered as she leaned forward.

“May I?”

Margaery’s small nod had her close the last of the distance. Even though she tried to hide it, Sansa could see the slight flinch that went through Margaery’s expression as she gently put the cool cloth against her sore cheek. In an instinct, Margaery’s hand reached up, recapturing some contain as she covered Sansa’s hand with her own. The contrast of Margaery’s warm skin on the back of her hand together with soft eyes studying her with a blend of turmoil, gratefulness, comfort, and exhaustion felt profoundly heavy.

It became too much, so severely that she could not help to pull back her hand, clutching it into her other, as she leaned back in her chair.

“I’m sorry,” she stated, her eyes still only reluctantly meeting Margaery’s. She could alone hope that Margaery knew she meant a load more than just the bruise on her cheekbone.

“For a bureaucrat he has quite the backhand,” Margaery said as she leaned back in the chair too. “Must be all those years of clawing himself to power.”

The guilty conscience weighed on her. She had not wanted her harmed, had gone out of her way to secure that Margaery was safe and comfortable, and ultimately she had not achieved it.

“It was not particularly wise of you to offend him like that,” Sansa chastised with lifted eyebrows reaching for her mug and warming her palms on it. “I assumed you knew better than that.”

“I understood it was likely the last occasion I’d ever look at him,” Margaery returned with passion flaring in her eyes. “And he ought to perceive what I think about him.”

Her expression and manner reminded Sansa terribly of Olenna Tyrell at that point. The strong, impudent woman who was beyond fear or the need to make wise choices. She played the part well, alike when Sansa knew she was still shaken up to the bone over what had ensued. Even more certain that defying Littlefinger had a bunch more to do with finding a vent for her misery than any sensible judgment. They all had their armours it seemed.  

“It was foolish,” Sansa insisted still. “He’s a dangerous man.”

She was still agitated by it herself, further so than she wanted to admit. She had always known Littlefinger was dangerous, and when she had observed it from the gallery, too far away to overhear any of the words delivered, her heart had stopped when she’d seen Margaery spit in his face, because she realized he would not just accept a demeanour like that.

It had stopped a second time when she Littlefinger had slapped her so strong her face had distorted to the side. For a flash she’d merely seen Margaery’s head turned unnaturally, her face concealed by a veil of her hair, and she had ceased breathing until Margaery had slowly straightened her posture. If it hadn’t been for Bran by her side, his grip on her wrist, quietly warning her that she’d endanger not only Arya and Margaery, but all they worked for, she would have surged down there in that moment and scratched his eyes out.

“If I wasn’t certain of that before, I know now,” Margaery conceited, she stared into her drink, thus taking a sizable gulp of it as if to wash something away, to erase what she was feeling.

Sansa’s own hands stiffened on her cup, so she’d not reach out in a comforting gesture, even though every fibre in her body told her to do so.

“For a moment there when Arya emerged from the cart I was certain I had to be dreaming.” Margaery spoke into the weighty silence with a narrow smile. “How did you know? When he led me into the yard, I was fast he had left nothing up to chance, that he’d have me out of Winterfell with no one noticing.”

Sansa offered a meagre smile in response, feeling her stomach churn in poor conscious as she drew a finger over the fringe of her cup.

“Bran was our eyes and ears,” she revealed. “We did not perceive explicitly what Littlefinger was planning, but were well briefed about all the arrangements he had brought into place.”

For the preceding two days

all the information that Bran had been able to present them had been exasperating, as until the end Littlefinger had filled in nobody of what he was plotting. They had only captured small details. The wagon he had arranged for, the raven he had sought to send to Moat Caillín, giving vague encrypted instructions, the two sell swords he had brought in to escort Margaery. Until the end Littlefinger had been prudent, had offered no one more information than mandatory.

“Those two men,” Margaery went on, “they were working for you all along?”

“Not entirely,” Sansa relented. “After Bran told us about Littlefinger's exchanges with them, Arya and I served them a visit. Arya can be fairly convincing when required.”

To such an extent that Sansa was positive not to get on her sister's bad side when she could avert it; at the same stage it was deeply reassuring to have such a powerful force in her corner.

Margaery nodded in silent pondering, and Sansa wondered if Margaery had gotten to see just a taste of this faction of Arya when she’d confronted her with the letters.

When Margaery turned the ice-filled cloth on her cheek, Sansa could determine that the cooling had been too little, too late. A bruise was already blossoming on the swollen cheek. The sight of that served not to bring the relief she should have felt right now. Mainly because she recognized with all of Margaery’s questions that were slowly emerging, it was purely a matter of time until she would land on a particularly crucial one.

“I did not comprehend that your brother‘s ability went so far,” Margaery noted. “I remember you mentioned something about visions, but I had no concept that he could draw quite so much information.”

“Neither did Littlefinger, luckily,” Sansa answered, bracing herself for the questions she saw coming, the one she could feel building in Margaery’s mind.

“So it was your brother who exposed that it was not me who wrote the letters?”

It would have been simple to just affirm that, it would have saved matters from turning even further complicated between them, and yet… it was dishonesty that had pushed them into all of this in the first place, and if she didn’t put an end to it now, the lies would never stop.

“I knew you did not write those letters,” Sansa confessed, compelling herself to not look away from Margaery. “From the time that Arya presented them to me.”

Margaery had been ambitious to present lightness and ease in her features despite what had transpired, but with those words her face darkened noticeably. The hand with the ice dropped into her lap. With a quiet shake of her head Margaery gathered the new knowledge, struggled to make sense as she stared at Sansa with disbelief.

“You knew?”

“They were excellent imitations, but not perfect,” Sansa conceded with a nod, as she did her best to carry her tone steady. To not let the regret that Margaery’s sheer disbelief sparked impair her mind or her confidence that she had done the appropriate thing. “The wording gave them away, the writing was nearly perfect, but I suspect it is more of a challenge to match the character of phrasing.”

It was not as easy to forge someone’s manner of saying something, not even for Littlefinger, particularly with someone as outspoken as Margaery He had miscalculated how thoroughly she knew Margaery and her way of speaking, as well as her writing.

Margaery pressed her lips together, trying to compose herself; her eyes lowered for a flash and she smoothed a hand over her stomach as if to calm herself. Still she could not conceal the irritation in her eyes when she glanced up to meet Sansa’s.

“You locked me away for a fortnight, knowing I was innocent?” Her voice was smooth and yet biting.

“I needed Littlefinger convinced that I believed it, that all was progressing precisely as he had planned it,” Sansa explained, spoke the phrases out loud with which she had advocated this strategy to herself when she’d lain awake in bed at night, expecting she would go mad with concern for Margaery. “It is also the reason I sent Brienne away. I required him to think everything was settling into place as he wanted it.”

Margaery continued to take her in with a tense expression, a wary distance in her face. “What about Arya? Did she know too?”

Sansa shook her head. “Not right away.”

With a harsh breath, if it was to contain her resentment or to produce sense of it all Sansa couldn’t identify, Margaery clasped hands over her stomach, for this moment just seeming more disheartened than anything.

“You could have just filled me in?”

That was likewise a question that did not appear unexpected for Sansa. Mainly, because she had been so incredibly close to do so about fifty times within the first three days alone, and had also always consciously decided against it. Had forced her feet back on course when they wanted to carry her to the Guest House, had burned small notes she had written to be delivered to Margaery.

“No, I couldn’t,” Sansa returned. “We had no sense of knowing for certain how deep Littlefinger’s web ran. If I’d gone to see you, sent you a message, even send Arya, we could have never been assured he would not have learned of it in some form.”

Margaery shot her a joyless, daring smile that achieved little to hide her genuine anger. “Not to mention you were still mad at me for lying to you.”

With a raise of her chin, Sansa held Margaery’s gaze on her, tightening the grip on her cup, compelling herself to stand by her conviction to be sincere. She had realized this would not be pleasant, had known Margaery would be bitter, and yet she had seen the plan through.

“I was angry,” Sansa returned coolly. “Perhaps too angry to trust you yet with something of such importance.”

Margaery nodded slowly, tossing the cloth with ice on the table and gathered her shawl around herself as she went to her feet to bring some distance between them. For a moment that appeared like an eternity, she remained in front of the fireplace staring into the flames, her arms crossed over her breast like the fire was not adequate to warm her up, then she flung Sansa a look over her right shoulder.

“I’m curious,” she broke the silence. “Is a fortnight of fearing for my life enough to earn your forgiveness at last?”

Sansa leaned back in her chair with a stiff posture, her head lifting even a part further. “You don’t get to do this,” she expressed a lot more calm than she felt. “You are not the victim in this. It was your dishonesty that made the forging of the letters possible in the first place. Can you even imagine what would have resulted if he had send them? If he had used what you were withholding from me for the longest time, against me and my house? What damage that could have caused?”

“I know I did wrong by you,” Margaery acknowledged with a laboured breath. “But I still get to be angry about this.”

“Angry perhaps,” Sansa allowed. “But do not expect apologies for how I resolved to deal with a mess you caused in the first place. I had no alternative-”

“No,” Margaery interrupted with an erratic shake of her head, as she whirled around. “Those are two profoundly different kettle of fish. Dealing with Baelish was one point, your resentment to my dishonesty a whole other. Don’t mix those two up and act like they are the same thing, just because they happened relatively close to each other. You do not get the moral high ground in this matter.”

“And neither do you,” Sansa reminded. “My choice not to fill you in and your choice not to reveal your pregnancy are likewise not as exclusive as you think they are. I trusted you. More than I have trusted anybody in a long time, even my own family - and you lied to me _for months_. Do you expect me just to forgive and forget that?”

This was progressing so differently than she had wanted this conversation to pass. She assumed she had left behind her resentment for Margaery, in those sheer endless nights when she had laid awake tossing and turning, worrying about how she was. Then she had longed just to get this over with, had thought she was prepared to forgive her. Wanted nothing more than to go and see her and talk matters through once and for all. But perhaps she had her yearning for Margaery cloud how upset she yet was.

“I don’t,” Margaery allowed in a slightly milder fashion. “I realize that your anger is justified, I’m simply asking you to see that mine is too. An hour ago I assumed I was being turned over to Cersei to do with me as she pleased. Do you have _any_ sense know how terrifying that was?”

She did. She perceived that this would frighten Margaery, because it had horrified Sansa herself. It was why she had sent her the rose this morning, in a perhaps feign hope that she would understand this was not something she would ever allow. They had been too close to succeeding, she could not surrender then, even sending her the rose had been a risk -one she’d only very reluctantly had gotten Arya to agree to help her with.

Still the open vulnerability in Margaery’s tone and her eyes softened the anger that had flourished in the last couple of minutes. Her predictions and the reasons why she had not gone to see Margaery in the first place were still valid. Looking into her eyes, there was no way she could have ever gone through with this if she had looked her in the face while making the decision. Why she had sent Arya instead of herself.

“You know I would have never let him—”

“That’s not what this is about,” Margaery interrupted her, shaking her head and drawing a few steps forward, taking a shaky breath as her hands wrapped around the backrest of her vacant chair.

Sansa took a clearing breath as well, sorting her thoughts. “You're right. And at the same time that is just the point. This wasn't about us. This was about so much more.” Even as she spoke the words, Sansa was not entirely sure anymore how true they were.

Margaery’s anger seemed to have disappeared for the bigger part. Her eyes were trained on her fingers that danced over the backrest, a sad smile then surfacing to her face.

“For the past two weeks I've imagined what I would say to you should you hear me out. And believe me I never aimed to be so terribly hostile.”

“Neither have I,” Sansa admitted.

Sansa’s heart ached. It had been the same for her. She had worried for Margaery so much, she had been frightened for her. Afraid that she might do something foolish out of despair or fear, afraid what Littlefinger might plot for her.

 “I missed you,” Sansa surrendered in that moment, wishing that perhaps that testimony would take some sorrow off Margaery’s face.

Margaery’s eyes darted up merely for a brief note and other than Sansa had intended her smile turned even sadder. “And I missed you.”

They cared about each other more than for anyone and yet had induced each other so much misery. Even when the worst was deemed to be behind them, when they should have concentrated on moving forward, it seemed like the pain that still lingered made it inconceivable for both of them.

“I thought a lot about what you suggested that morning,” Sansa recalled. The morning where all had gone to hell. “That we don’t live in a world where this can end in anything but pain.”

Margaery still did not look at her, merely responded with a solemn face. “... it’s still seems not altogether inaccurate, I’m afraid.”

“The day when Arya showed me those letters… I was yet so upset with you.” She drew an unsteady breath and leaned forward her hands folded on the table. “Perhaps the judgment of letting you suffer the consequences, not letting you in on what was going on, was initially formed out of that. Only by the time my anger eased, we were too far gone to still change that.”

Margaery looked almost amused there for a note. “I suppose I perceive a thing or two about being too deep into a mess you created yourself to emerge from it.”

“I never meant you to be as scared as you were.”

“I know,” Margaery contemplated. “And I wasn’t. Not for the most part at least, not until tonight.”

Sansa longed to stand up and bring an arm around her, reassure her like Margaery had consoled her in the past, but since she felt still too big of a gap between them, she could not quite cross yet, she settled on the next best thing.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I never meant to hurt you.”

Margaery looked at her, long and careful. “I’m the one who is sorry.” Movement returned to her with these words and she dropped on the seat of the chair she had been holding onto. Leaning forward on the table she mirrored Sansa’s position, folding her hands in front of her, their fingertips only inches away from each other. “You passed a good point, it was my actions, my deceiving you, that contributed to all of this. If I’d only been sincere with you from the start, Baelish would have never had the advantage he did.”

Sansa sighed and made a face. “I assume in this particular situation it would have made little difference. Knowing him, he would have turned up something else to provoke trouble for us.”

With a pensive look, Margaery reached for the Brimstone rose that remained neglected on the table that, after a day without water, of being crushed in Margaery’s grip, and dropped into the snow, yet looked fresh, almost like it had only just been cut off the plant.

“Perhaps,” Margaery mused, her fingers drawing over the exquisite petals. “But it would have made a difference for us.”

Sansa craved nothing higher than to declare it was water under the bridge, and with what had taken place tonight it seemed like it more than ever before, with how close she had been to losing Margaery -yet she could not bring the sounds past her lips. It still hurt, not as bad as in the beginning, but it still weighed on her that Margaery had not trusted her enough to be sincere.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She had asked that question before, did not know what other answer she hoped for this time, but still hoped perhaps that Margaery could provide her a way that would finally make her understand.

Margaery’s eyes drew up to her face gently as she considered what to answer, a strong sense of sorrow in them, inconceivable misery and repent, but likewise genuine and deep devotion.

“When I first reached Winterfell, I expect I was yet too much impacted by what happened to me to do so. My world, my life had been wiped out, and I was scarcely healed from that. I had only just granted the awareness that I would have to have this child into my own mind. And I was certainly still too ambiguous about it and what bearing it would mean to tell you.”

“When did you first recognize that you were pregnant?”

Margaery’s eyes flickered with genuine surprise at the question, and a particular hint of a smile appeared to her face. The same one that was regularly in place when she spoke about the time that lay between the Wildfire and Winterfell. As if presenting a smile on her face was the sole way she could talk about it, to not dissolve into tears.

“I was somewhere in the midst of the crownlands, a couple of days away from Antlers, if I recall. I was moving with this group of... travelling folk.” She halted and absorbed whatever further information she appeared not prefer to reveal there.

“I had not been feeling my best for a while, consistently since I’d left King’s Landing. I assumed it was yet the strain of my recovery, I got nauseous, the smells inside the cart made me sick, so considerable that I walked for most parts of the day. There was this woman who had reached the group only a few days after I did who had knowledge of midwifery.”

Margaery trained her eyes to the table. “I laughed in her face when she voiced her suspicion that I could be- I mean after all, after what I’d been through?- and then I allowed the thought, and I expected I would lose my mind.”

She faltered for a flash before she continued on, swept a palm over her stomach. “The potions she made me did not work. When the movements started not much later, she told me I was too far along already. I genuinely was never as close to losing my mind as I was then. Ignoring it, pretending it was not there at all, not allowing it in the forefront of my mind was the mere thing I could do to somehow carry on.”

Sansa listened quietly, saw the shame and the misery in which Margaery spoke, and it did help her understand a little better.

There had been a while, right after Sansa had reached in Castle Black, three days, the longest three days of her life, where her blood had been late, where she had thought that perhaps Ramsay had impregnated her. If that had been the case, she would not have known what she would have done. She was sure she would have not been capable to bear his child, in no world and no scenario.

For the first time, Sansa allowed herself to see, to the complete and entire amount, how desperate Margaery had to be when she’d turned up in Winterfell. Not only had she lost everything, was grieving her family, to on top of all that having no alternative, but to bring a child into this world she didn’t want, that she didn’t care for, had to be impossible, and had to draw more strength than Sansa herself would have had.

“I meant what I told you the day after I arrived,” Margaery went on quietly, thoughtfully. “I do not want the throne anymore. I know that I have lost and I do not aim to participate in this game anymore. It’s what passed this pregnancy so inaccessible to begin with, because I know eventually I would come to the point where I had to consider it.”

She hesitated for a point, as if to draw her courage to carry on. “And then for a while, I thought perhaps it offered me some advantage. That if I had to have it, it could hold significance for someone, whether that be Lord Baelish, Cersei, I don’t even know. It was ludicrous, and I was desperate.”

Her eyes met Sansa’s then and looked the slightest bit misty, even while there was a hint of that crooked smile. “And amidst all of that, you happened to me and that made a previously problematic situation even more difficult. I did not plan to fall for you. Let alone ever act on it. I thought I was coming here to find protection, I had no notion just how much more I'd find. Before that day, that night in the stables, I still had all the best intentions not to lead us down that road, I did not aim to ever act on my sentiments for you, but once I had… Sansa you were a resurrection for me, one of the most magnificent kind, I didn't want to take that away from myself and went way deeper than I ever bargained for.”

Her heart would have required to be of stone not to be touched by Margaery’s words. They had never spoken about what had grown between them, had been too easily diverted with acting on it. It was important to hear Margaery’s side of all of it, it was wonderful to have the verbal confirmation what she felt for her. And yet...

“I wish you would have been honest because of what you felt for me,” Sansa confessed. “Not despite of it, or because you felt you had to after I told you about Ramsay.”

When Margaery’s eyes had been evasive before, now they settled on her, unyielding so much that it made Sansa uncomfortable.

“Is that what you think?” she breathed.

Sansa shrugged, not liking the course they were setting here. For the longest time they both had not revealed their whole truth, but she had confined in Margaery because she chosen to, wanted to, not because she _needed_ to. She had told Margaery about Ramsay because she trusted her, entirely and without question. That was the large distinction in it all, the point that was defining.

“It breaks down to that doesn’t it? You didn’t trust me enough.”

Margaery shook her head with a strained look. “Oh Sansa. I told you because I trusted you, because I had faith in us. That morning when I woke up with you in my arms I hoped perhaps we would make it through this and you'd be capable to recognize why I didn't tell you earlier.”

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment and relented with a shake of her head. “I understand you had solid reasons for not telling me. I realize that you were scared and overwhelmed and also why, alike that you regarded this secret of value for your fate. The reasonable part of my mind perceives all of that, but that does not change that it still hurts.”

How Margaery rubbed her fingers together showed Sansa that she wished to reach out for her, to draw her hand in her own, like she had done so many times before when they rested at this table together.

“That is what I have been frightened of more than all. More than anything Baelish or Cersei could do to me,” Margaery confessed. “That I’ve spoiled things irredeemably and indefinitely between us.”

Sansa considered it. Indefinite was a big word.

For the preceding three weeks, her thoughts had rolled back and forth on whether she could forgive that breach of trust, whether she could make herself so vulnerable again to Margaery, after experiencing what it tasted like to have such pain caused by the one person you cherished more than anyone. That had been terrible and something she could not simply forget about, but she felt herself getting closer to a degree where she could forgive it.

No, she didn’t want indefinite. Could not stand the prospect that it would be forever this cordial, distant conversation between them. She was still hurting, but she knew it would mend, ultimately.

This time she reached out and she let her fingers brush over Margaery’s knuckles gently, not sure if the trembling she felt came from Margaery or herself. When offered her open palm for Margaery, it took less than two heartbeats to seize it. The warmth that Margaery’s fingers around her own emitted felt marvellous, something she had craved so much, had missed so much. That holding someone’s hand could have that effect on her still startled her and it made her long for more than that, a lot more.

“You didn’t,” she breathed as fingers wrapped around each other securely. “I just need time.”

The first true smile materialized on Margaery’s face in that moment. The first real one in weeks, and it was exquisite. “All the time in the world you need.”

It seemed more than just a promise, it was a vow.

They sat there for a moment longer in silence, holding onto each other, looking in the other’s eyes.

It was Sansa who let go first, not because she thought it was too much, too soon, but because it appeared like it was not enough. The silence between them felt heavy. The last time they'd been alone in these rooms, there had been touching, kissing, teasing. This distance still felt strange and wrong, and Sansa did not trust herself to hold it up if she did not draw some borders.

This was what she was frightened of still, that desire to be close to Margaery again. That need to ignore all that had happened. And in light of what had almost happened tonight, how close she could have been to losing her, her hesitation to it seemed almost pointless, but she knew it was the right thing for them. There was a lot more to talk through, to consider, before they would go back to that.

Margaery lying to her had woken that despising feeling of being yet again that thirteen year old girl who trusted the wrong people for the wrong reasons, and if she wanted to move forward with Margaery, she needed to be smarter than that, needed not feel like that anymore.

“Sansa…” Margaery came around thus, full of reluctance. “While I’m very glad you feel that way, there is something I require you to consider.”

Leaning back in her chair Sansa felt a little uneasy at the urgency of Margaery’s tone.

“We never spoke about us, or what happened between us, not to the degree that we should have.”

No, they hadn’t. Margaery had proposed that they should, that night after they‘d come back from the stables, but they had never actually done so. Before their first kiss, they had talked for hours seamlessly, and thereafter further kisses that had followed had left them ever too preoccupied to do so.

“And I think we ought to clear the air once and for all.”

Sansa did not particularly know what to predict, but she nodded yet. “Of course. What do you have in mind?”

Alone after a deep inhale, Margaery carried on. “When I expressed my concern that _this_ could alone result in pain, I was not just speaking about the secret I was withholding.”

“What then?”

“You said you still require time,” Margaery went on. “And while I’m prepared to wait decades if that is what it takes, perhaps we should likewise consider drawing a line here. While we still can.”

Her mouth fell open at the proposition. She couldn’t truly mean that, could she?

It was solely in that note with that words, that Sansa’s realised how very she did not wish to abandon what she had with Margaery.

“Hear me out,” Margaery pleaded. “It’s not that I don’t want you-Gods, if only-” she took a containing breath, “But you – we – deserve a clean break. With all the information.”

With reluctance Sansa looked at her. “And what does that involve?”

“Looking at the future,” Margaery breathed immediately, like the words had been caught in her throat for a long time.

“I understood you have no grand plans for the future anymore,” Sansa recalled with a challenge in her eyes. “Happiness and coming to peace. Wasn’t that all you still aimed for?”

“I still am. But this is not solely my future, but yours too,” Margaery returned seriously. “There might come a time when thinking about marriage becomes of relevance to you again.”

Sansa looked at her in sheer bewilderment. Did Margaery lose any perception of who she was?

“I don’t see a variant of my future where I’d ever give any man rule over myself or my life again,” she declared with raised eyebrows.

“While I see that you feel that way and why,” Margaery went on. “That might change. You _are_ the future of House Stark.”

“I have three siblings who also could secure the succession of our house.”

Even she held the apprehension in her own words. Arya if possible seemed even less interested in marriage than herself, Bran was… not Bran anymore, and even if, perhaps not capable to provide this and Jon was… not a Stark, not formally.

Still, she would sooner let the Stark name die with them, before she’d consider marriage again.

“Even so. I might require to consider it.”

“So _you_ are contemplating marriage?”

That ached, more than she wished to show.

“You’d think with three dead husbands I would have learned my lesson,” Margaery quipped in a poor attempt to ease the mood. To Sansa’s sombre look she shook her head. “I’m with you on not _wanting_ to give anyone control over my life again, completely, but giving into sentiments, acting as you please, that is something for those with power, which I have tremendously little of. I cannot hide out here eternally. I have not merely myself to think of, but also my child. It is my responsibility. Highgarden is my responsibility.”

Margaery seemed not to recognise it herself that she had spoken of her child, not it, not the child, no hers. For that she’d insisted to feel indifferent about it not too long ago, the bit of warmth that swayed in her tone gave it a different light. Made Sansa _almost_ understand.

Margaery tilted her head backward and took a deep frustrated breath. “It’s not that I want to leave, or what I aim to do. I’m fairly positive I’m not going anywhere in the near future.”

It sounded like that was a bad thing, Sansa thought as she looked at her in grim silence.

“I’m just seeking to examine every conceivable aspect.” She studied Sansa long and sorrowfully. “Even if you find it in your heart to absolve me, even if I remain here for the rest of my life, alike if we are lucky enough that neither of us ever needs to think of marriage again…It could never go public, it’d be forever just secluded and hidden moments in too short hours.”

Again Sansa did not answer anything, but let her go on, feeling worse with every word she spoke.

„… and that might not seem to matter now, might even seem appealing and revelling, but I promise you, it won’t always be like that. There will come the moment when you and I will feel terribly frustrated with that state.”

“It almost sounds like you are trying to scare me off.”

Margaery shook her head. “No. I’d believe myself so incredibly lucky that you even contemplate letting me back into your heart.… But I had a taste of what causing you sorrow feels like, because I was stupid and selfish. I just need you to recognize even if I do everything in my power to not  ever hurt you again, our circumstances might.”

Sansa let the words weigh on her. Recognized that it was something that Margaery had needed to express to her. That had been raging in her for a time now.

Perhaps instead of speculating whether or why she wanted to push her away, whether perhaps she resolved to not want her, instead she should do what Margaery asked. Address it all. All they had missed the first time around. And perhaps it would furthermore help Margaery understand that there was no alternative for her and why.

“Can I ask you something?” Sansa tone was gentle and reflective.

“Of course.”

“How long have you felt for me like this?” This question had been on her mind ever since the first time Margaery’s lips had brushed her own. So many times she’d speculated about it, sought to identify an explicit occasion when Margaery’s behaviour had changed, when her glances and actions had.

The way Margaery smiled at her implied that she believed her so invaluable.

“It’s impossible to bind it to a definite point,” she answered after a stage of silent contemplating. “It started ever so gradually, crept up on me if you will. From my first hour here, I saw things about you that I cherished, more than just your beauty and how much you’d matured. The course you made judgments, your thoughtful manner of ruling, causing men twice your statue fear you and being a vulnerable young girl an hour thereafter.” She smiled gently. “The further I understood about you, the more inevitable you became.”

It astonished her how much Margaery’s answer aligned with her own reality. Even if she could pin the specific moment when she had realised her feelings for her, it had increased ever so deliberately. First into a complex friendship and later somehow beyond that, until this moment in the Gods Wood where she thought her heart would burst out of her breast.

“It was the same for me,” Sansa confessed. “Alone I assume I took a part longer to bring it into the appropriate context, and understand, because…”

“Because I’m a woman?” Margaery finished for her with a mild smile.

Sansa only nodded, positive she’d only manage stuttered fragments of sentences if she sought to speak.

She had not felt like this ever before in her life, had not realized that this was indeed feasible, this desire to be with someone. And she had speculated, many times… whether that was because Margaery was Margaery or because she was a woman, if her sex mattered at all in this. She had come across a number of fascinating and beautiful women throughout her life, had cared a great deal for some of them, but never would she have considered… she’d never felt for any of them like she did for Margaery.

“It’s strange. While it feels like that should matter, in the end I’m resolved that it doesn’t,” Sansa continued calmly. “I can’t imagine being with anyone… man or woman, who isn’t you.”

Margaery looked at her again like she was the most precious thing in this world, and still there was a solid fraction of remorse in her eyes. “Perhaps we are both past the time of making an informed choice.”

“Would that be the worst?” Sansa challenged.

Margaery shook her head, the hint of a light smile on her face. “It appears like nothing that occurs with you could ever be wrong.”

And that was altogether what gave this affection such a disastrous potential, Sansa understood.

There was a certain discomfort in the way they looked at each other. The distance did not fit the words they had just uttered, nonetheless Sansa knew it was vital. It relieved Sansa that Margaery did not look as grim as before;’ alike with the hint of reflectiveness, the smile that had played on her face still persisted in parts.

This kind of frankness was essential, and she knew she would yet require to consider Margaery’s words more carefully than she perceived the energy to now, but she likewise knew, had no doubt she would settle on the same conviction.

 _Inevitable_ Margaery had called it, and Sansa felt she could not have put it better.

Her eyes drew over Margaery for a long moment. It had startled her how much her appearance had altered within just a fortnight. Not in a bad sense; she was clearly tired, but with the except of that and the bruise on her cheek, she looked fresher and healthier than ever since her arrival in Winterfell. Her complexion was glowing, her hair shiny and yet again the tiniest bit longer, her face had become fuller, a certain roundness to it that became her. Her stomach had grown tremendously, so much that Sansa could not comprehend how she had been capable to conceal it only three weeks ago.

In other circumstances, Margaery would not be on her feet much more; Sansa could basically see the image of Margaery being coddled and pampered for by a whole flog of people, tending to her every need.

She knew so little about this condition, for what trouble and pain it had produced them. Had been so focused on Margaery’s dishonesty she had little capacity to examine what it meant. That Margaery would be somebody’s mother, was already to some extent. She’d seen her as so many things since she’d arrived, a friend, a confidant, someone who’d lost everything and still went on through her day with a smile, one of the strongest people she knew, a woman that had brought herself back to life, someone that could make her skin burn with a simple glance, with a single smile, and yet in all of those different versions she knew so thoroughly, she knew little to nothing about the woman who was about to be a mother.

In their new start she owed it to both of them to change that.

Yet, when she watched her now, with her hands almost tenderly on her round stomach, she seemed almost at peace with it. She looked like a mother, whether she wished to be one or not.

“The Maester said you are hardly more than a month away from giving birth.”

Margaery nodded. Sansa knew better than to inquire what would happen after, could observe that Margaery was yet at trouble with it, that she had not the slightest notion.

Her next question slipped past her lips, out of curiosity more than judgment.

“What’s it like? I mean, being pregnant?”

When she was young, she’d wished of nothing more than having a family of her own, bearing a child to her husband would be the grandest achievement of her life. Life had robbed her of that goal, had robbed her off that dream, little by little, until where she was now, where she’d accepted that there’d be no children of her own. Even if she’d been ready to see past what brought about the conception of a child - who’d be foolish enough to bring a child into _this_ world?

“Annoying for most parts,” Margaery admitted with a mild chuckle. “My body is not my own anymore and I loathe that. Everything is just so much more laborious, I have headaches, heartburn or get dizzy…” She shook her head, and Sansa thought she appeared not to realise that she was smiling right then. “This child already plays its best to agonise me. It moves around before I’m awake, waking me; it kicks particularly hard when I’m in certain positions.”

That did not reflect as indifferent as Margaery had previously declared she was. Only still prudent in her sentiments, Sansa thought to herself.

“It must be strange,” she suggested with a small smile herself. “To realize there is a whole new person growing inside of you.”

“The strangest feeling you could imagine.”

It was at that time that Margaery caught herself, in how she was speaking, how delicately her palms were brushing over her belly. She offered a small smile then, a lot tighter and less genuine than before.

Margaery split the heavy silence. When she changed the topic, unlike so many times before where she had done so for Sansa’s sake, this time it appeared to have a whole lot to do with herself feeling too affected to hang on the subject.

“What will happen to him?”

Sansa did not need to ask what she meant and she sighed, curling her hands into one another. Assuming the same debate coming up she had played back and forth with Arya for too long now. “We'll bring him to a trial once Jon is back.”

Margaery tipped her head, cautious disagreement noticeable in her expression. “Why delay it until then? I suppose that it will have an exceedingly definite conclusion either way?”

“Which is precisely why it needs to happen properly,” Sansa set forth. “We considered”-Arya demanded-”to let him suffer the repercussions of his acts right away in the courtyard tonight.”

Nimble fingers painted lines in the ice that was slowly melting inside the folded cloth, peering at Sansa through lidded eyes. “But you opposed to that?”

“I cannot jeopardize losing the loyalty of the Vale,” Sansa justified. “Now more than ever. He needs to face a formal trial, I won’t take any chances in this.”

“And you don’t think you are taking any chances letting him live?” Margaery questioned, a mild sharpness in her tone. “Every day in the cells, every day he lives, he remains a risk.”

“You sound like Arya,” Sansa said with a shake of her head.

It felt too much to have this argument again, not when she had just convinced, or rather ordered Arya to see her position. The long night was impending, and in lights of what Jon’s later actions, they required all the support they could have.

Seeming to recognize her inner exasperation, Margaery’s face softened, and she relented. “I understand your reasoning, I don’t want to oppose you. I suppose I’m still too shaken up to have an unbiased stand in this.”

That was part of her own problem too, Sansa knew. What he had tried to do to Margaery, and by measure, to her, how he’d played his part of a confidant, a counsellor for the previous weeks, when he would have needed to be blind to see her suffering, all while insisting that he cared for her. And that was only the tip of the iceberg of what he had done, not only to her, but to their entire family.

No, had she passed a decision tonight, she would have found a destiny worse than the one Ramsay had undergone. It was why the judgement needed to come from Jon.

“How did he know in the first place that you were pregnant?” Sansa hesitated for the duration of a heartbeat. “Did you tell him?”

It was something she was still anxious to inquire. Had Margaery trusted Littlefinger more than she had entrusted her? She had alluded seeing the child as a leverage to facilitate her own needs.

“Of course not.” Margaery shook her head instantly. Then she returned her attention back to the melted ice in which she was drawing circles. “It ought to not have startled me as it did. All this time I’ve been warning you about not underestimating him, and still my own arrogance had me to believe I’d keep this secret hidden from him.” She shook her head at her own foolishness. “I have been playing coy with him for way too long. If I had not been so fortuitous for you to figure it all out I'd have to face Cersei within a fortnight.”

She seemed to shudder at the thought and Sansa’s hand itched to reach out and place it on top of hers.

It was her honesty that preserved her, Sansa thought. She would have been a part more shaken up if the revelation of Margaery’s pregnancy had reached her through any other form. When the letters had come up, she had already had time to arrange the worst of her confusion. In any other constellation she did not know, perhaps her reaction would have made things a lot worse for both of them.

“This past week we discovered to some degree of how far his network reached, and I believe we yet hardly know part of it," Sansa went on. “It'd shock you how he utilised people for his purposes without them even realising it.”

Margaery nodded at that, more reconciled with herself that it had not been merely her who’d underestimated him.

“It’s curious, but I think him sending me away was not part of his plan. He could have done that easier. Could have arranged that a while ago if he wanted. Why go through the strain of forging letters, of locking me up. If he wanted to drag me away at night, he could have done so last month already.”

Sansa realised that she had not shared the biggest news disclosed today.

“He was running out of time,” she stated. “He needed an advantage, either for myself or for Cersei, I’m not certain, but in both cases you were an excellent choice.”

Margaery looked at her in clear incoherence as she did not follow where Sansa was getting at this with.

Sansa drew in a breath, one she desired would let her manage keeping her own emotions to this under authority. “Jon announced that he would return soon.”

“That would have brought him under time pressure. I can see that,” Margaery returned cautiously.

Sansa’s eyes met Margaery’s, and in her reaction she could tell that her expression had hardened.

“He’s bringing Daenerys Targaryen with him,” Sansa could not help the cutting quality in her statement. “He’s bent the knee.”

The way Margaery’s mouth opened and closed, how a hundred reactions flashed over her face would have been charming, if Sansa was not yet so unsettled with her brother’s judgment.

“He surrendered the North to her?” Margaery pressed out.

“For her support against what lies beyond the wall.”

Sansa could feel how her posture had gone rigid, how her hands had tensed up to the point where it was painful, her nails digging into her palm.

Margaery’s voice was gentle as she inquired further. “And how are you feeling about that?”

Sansa only achieved a shrug. Said the phrases she’d said out loud before, she recited in her head to not surrender all self-restraint she had left. “He’s the King, it’s his decision.”

It shouldn’t have astonished her that Margaery did not just abandon the matter with that. No one had. Not Arya, not Littlefinger, not even Bran.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Sansa shook her head. “I am confident he has solid reasons to support this decision.”

She could not surrender how upset this left her, alike when she thought that Margaery already knew anyway. They had to present a unified front now more than ever. If she even showed the hint of the suggestion how upset she was with his decision to any of the northern Lords there was no knowing what would transpire. A bunch of men would be more than content not to have to fight in the war that was impending, happy to return home and pull their support.

“You’re upset,” Margaery noted as if she read her thoughts precisely.

Only giving the slightest trace of a nod, Sansa kept her eyes focused on Margaery’s, alone now considering how substantial her presence had lacked in occasions like this. Someone understanding her, without judging her and offering perhaps not consult - there was no consult anyone could offer her in this stage, as she’d been presented with accomplished facts, her mere option to support her brother’s decision or not - but at least something like compassion.

“How do your siblings feel about his declaration?”

“Similar.”

Bran had been thoughtful, like most of the time. Sometimes she wondered what it receive to get a real reaction out of him yet.

Arya’s had been collected, but Sansa had recognized the disbelief seething in her nonetheless. Even if she was practically sure it would be rather short-lived. Arya would give Jon the benefit of the doubt, loved him too much not to. When she’d given her hell for a piece of paper she’d written as a stupid child, Sansa had almost no uncertainty that once Jon was here, once Arya would look at him then, the last of her resentment would vaporize.

And perhaps her own would too. Even if she had every intention of giving him a proper piece of her mind. While he was the King, it was not his decision alone to pass. Not after all they’d overcome to get Winterfell back. It was as much hers as his, and Arya’s and Bran’s.

Whatever loomed behind the wall better be worth this sacrifice.

“How do you feel about him bringing Daenerys Targaryen?”

Something in Margaery’s expression was off. Sansa did not identify how to understand about that remark, why it felt so off, what that exact tone was that floated in it. Was it curiosity? She was curious for her as well. How could she not? Someone who’d progressed from a life in exile to raising up an army that was beyond anything Westeros had known in centuries was admirable for sure.

“Curious for the most part,” Sansa noted. “They say she and her dragons are captivating.”

“And merciless if required.”

There it was again that particular tone and the way Margaery’s fingers almost cautiously brushed over her stomach helped Sansa categorise it. It was ever so restrained, but still unmistakable concern. Perhaps for herself, perhaps for her child. And granted that Margaery was a former queen, that she had striven for nothing else throughout most of her life, and that she was pregnant with what some might regard the lawful heir to the iron throne, perhaps she was not mistaken to be troubled.

“She won’t harm you or the child.”

Margaery gave a soft smile, through tired eyes.

“That wasn’t a prediction,” Sansa added firmly.

That was another thing what made having this child so impossible for her, Sansa understood. Knowing that sooner someone would regard it as a threat.

She resolved to think that it would not come to that, served to not believe Jon would bend the knee to someone who’d be capable of such cruelty.

“What else did I miss,” Margaery asked then, her voice pleading for something else to talk about.

Anything that will take my mind of what is yet to come. Sansa understood perfectly.

She smiled as a specific matter came to mind, one she was positive would cause Margaery amusement and dilute their spirits.

“Arya has agreed to train me with the sword.”

A subdued laugh escaped Margaery’s lips, and she covered her mouth making an apologetic face. “You are joking.”

Sansa smiled and quipped her head in a shrug. “I’m afraid I will come to regret that judgment, but she seemed rather confident she could teach me some essentials.”

“Was that your idea or hers?”

“Mine,” Sansa admitted, not preferring to go very deep into all the reasons why, of the perils that might yet come, that they might yet have to endure, not when Margaery was smiling at last.

She felt still it was a sensible choice. No one had gone easy on her in the past. Not Ilyn Payne, not Joffrey, not Ramsay. And they were all – albeit sorry excuses of such – yet very much human and had a pulsing heart. She could not predict any kind of mercy or could not rely on any other amends for the threat coming from the North.

When they were children and Arya had preferred playing with swords, she had scrunched her nose and looked down on those games as unladylike. Now, however, she somewhat envied her for the talent and knowledge she had. She had said Arya would have never survived, what she survived, and that was doubtless true. But Arya also would not have had to. She would have killed Joffrey at the first chance that presented itself and stuck a blade through Ramsay’s heart before he could ever lay a hand on her.

Sansa ignored the awareness that both of those acts would have most likely ended with Arya being killed herself. That was not what was relevant. Sansa would rather learn how to and not require it than the other way around.

“Loras taught me when we were younger, or struggled to do so,” Margaery recounted still with a faint smile. “It was less learning than me landing on my bum and him roaring at my absence of grace.”

Margaery doing anything without grace seemed a ludicrous thought, alike in her now not so light physical condition, there was yet a particular amenity in the way she carried herself, exceptionally.

“I imagine training with Arya will not be very different.”

“You’ll do great I’m confident.”

Margaery sounded sincere but Sansa did not fully trust it.  

“I’m simply glad she agreed to it at all,” Sansa said.  

“You two have become closer?”

“As close as can be expected. We will never be the kind of sisters who brush and braid each other’s hair.” Sansa looked aside. “She is not your typical girl, far from ever wanting to be a Lady.”

Margaery rested her chin on her hand. “I don’t know about you, but I’m rather grateful for that tonight.”

Sansa smiled and nodded. “It never brought us particularly close though, being so different even when she is my only sister.” Her eyes carefully darted to Margaery. “When I first met you, I felt you were everything I would have ever wanted in a sister.”

Margaery smiled at her, first sincerely than it became the slightest bit crooked. “That is… disturbing? Perhaps you spent too much time with Cersei.”

Sansa chuckled with a shake of her head. “You’re awful.”

She had missed that light banter more than she could express, only realised now she had it back how incredibly much.

“To acknowledge your initial question: Yes I expect we’ve passed the worst cliffs.”

“Nothing like dealing with a shared enemy to unite a family.”

“Bran turns out to be rather the intervening power,” Sansa added. “Most of the time I guess without him realising that he does, but being all-knowing has surely helped occasionally to let me understand my stubborn sister’s point of view.”

“I hope I get to meet him soon,” Margaery expressed. “I ought to thank him still.”

She looked forward to that. With Bran she had no worries he’d be unfriendly to Margaery, or treat her unpleasant. That was something she still concerned about with Arya, but not with her brother.

He was perhaps not the Bran that she remembered, and that was still something she lamented to a fraction, but then again neither was she. Or Arya. Or Jon. And he had grown into so much more than that funny curious little boy she missed. His insight into matters was spectacular, even if she was still getting used to the vigour he occasionally presented.

“I’m looking forward to introducing you.”

Sansa realized that she sincerely was. Not just to introducing Margaery to Bran, but to general having her around again. Spending time with her, talking to her, walking next to her in the courtyard. Only this time without any major looming dangers or secrets. In a life that was still exhausting at moments, this provided her a portion of strength and prospect, even if she realized only to be cautiously optimistic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you enjoyed this one and it could make up for all the lack of interaction in the previous two chapters.   
> As always I'd be delighted if you let me know what you thought, what you liked, didn't like, etc. I already have a feeling one or two points in this one might polarize slightly. :)
> 
> Either way, thank you for reading and sticking with this story! And of course thank you for all the comments, kudos, subscriptions and bookmarks! It means the world to me!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

“Observe your balance!”

“Maintain a solid stand!”

“Stay flexible in your movements!”

“Be mindful of your surroundings!”

“Don’t let your opponent out of sight!”

It was plain obvious Sansa had a hard time serving all the requests that Arya threw her way.

Margaery could not fault her. She had tested herself at this before and there was a reason she had not stuck with it longer than about an hour - because it was pretty damn complicated. Yet, Sansa’s stamina, regardless of her undeniable dissatisfaction of having imagined this being a lot simpler, amazed her.

The sight of Sansa with a blade, albeit her sister had chosen a relatively narrow one for her, not all that different to her own, was a strange picture.

Not that she did not appear graceful, just a little out of her depth, further so than Margaery had ever seen the Lady of Winterfell. She had merely liberated herself of her cloak and was still wearing her floor length dress, something that Arya had inspected with sceptical eyes, but not commented on. In all fairness, Sansa was holding up strong, despite her bland distinct absence of talent in this endeavour.

They were in the great hall, and Sansa had sensibly judged to close the venue off to anybody else. It had received persuasion from Margaery until she had granted to let her come along, and alone with the assurance that she would not talk, or comment, would not divert her.

That was something that was not easy for Margaery, but she’d felt Sansa’s stern face the one time she’d voiced an opinion and perceived not to push her luck. She remained on the side lines instead, sitting in a chair, a piece of handiwork in her fingers and more so listened to the guidance than really observing it.

It was not just the wiseacre remarks she had to keep to herself, but likewise any noises of anxiety.

Arya was not going easy on her sister. She kept the strikes coming relentlessly, only telling Sansa about a second before each one from which side she was swinging for Sansa to fend her off. Arya shrugged off any objections that came from Sansa about this teaching approach. If she wished to learn, they would do it her way.

 “Being prepared to defend yourself from an attack is much more critical than training how to strike yourself,” Arya had told Sansa in a brief break she had bestowed her. “I could direct you in the most elaborate and skilful way to kill someone–or try at least–but that won’t serve you any good if they brought a sword through your heart before you can even lift your own.”

Margaery realized that the words were legitimate. If it reached the stage of Sansa having to draw a sword in an actual conflict, events would have turned disastrous. Sansa’s intention to learn this had little to do with her craving to ride off into battle, but more with being prepared for all possibilities. If it came to the point where she would have to defend herself, that would mean all other resources around her were either conquered or dead. And in that light, what she required to learn about warfare was not how to beat a rival, but how to fight them off long enough to escape.

Margaery contemplated Arya as an able teacher. Alike if her style was unyielding, she was patient. Not once did she taunt Sansa or appear discouraging in any way, if anything Arya seemed to gain some appreciation for her sister, for the effort she brought in, and for the fact that she was not giving up easily.

Sitting keenly observing the Stark sisters not solely in the training, but further the way they gradually learned to perceive each other again, was a sight to behold. They might have been different on the surface, but the longer Margaery examined them, the oftener she noticed resemblances. A certain stubbornness, a way of being uncompromising, the quick tone they had with each other.

“You need to be more lively,” Arya rebuked, in an instant where she permitted Sansa to recapture her breathing, the blade in her hand already soared anew, ready for the next aim. “For someone who is so smooth with carrying themselves, with dancing and whatnot you are moving fairly leady.”

“Dancing rarely involves bearing a sword with the quarter of my own weight,” Sansa threw back, aligning her posture as she braced herself for her sister’s next blast.

“You’ll grow used to it,” Arya gave back unaffected, going three swift steps forward her blade already in the air as she gave Sansa the direction. “Right!”

Blades collided with a metallic ring that resounded through the walls and Margaery smiled that Sansa had seized the swing, if not absolutely refined and only by gripping onto the shaft with two hands.

“Try to build up the strength from your upper back, or you won’t be capable to rise your arms higher than your waistline tomorrow,” Arya corrected neutrally as she took in her sisters form and took a few steps backward.

“I have no strength in my upper back, that is the whole objective of this, struggling to gain some,” Sansa answered rolling her shoulders, as she drew up for Arya’s next charge.

“Right!” Arya commanded as rapid strides carried her to her sister who was catching her hit. “Excellent, but the entire thing your posture is gaining you right now are tender muscles.”

Sansa gave her best to serve Arya’s advice but during the next couple of strides presented the same poor posture in her shoulders.

“You’re not in it with your head. You’re distracted,” Arya noted and sustained then, lowering her weapon. “Let’s call it a day, you’re no longer capable to concentrate. You’ll merely end up hurt.”

For the split of a second there, Margaery thought Arya’s eyes skimmed to herself.

Margaery was yet at the odds with having Arya around as frequent as she was. For one because those two pervious encounter with the younger Stark girl were still rooted in her. For second because Arya did not trouble to acknowledge her presence, or her existence. When she spoke, she spoke to Sansa, looked at Sansa, even in a debate that all of them were engaged in; in the minor incidents where she could not sidestep addressing her, she was reserved in her words, as if she had to pay for any extra phrase she delivered to her.

All in all, it was something that Margaery settled she could endure with, an unavoidable evil, that was of small price to pay in light of the role Arya had played in Lord Baelish’s imprisonment.

… if only Arya wasn’t around _all day_ _long_.

From breakfast to dinner, and for every other occasion in between, Arya seemed fastened to her sister’s side, and to Margaery’s by default.

It limited the communication between her and Sansa into a trivial field of possibilities. Which admittedly perhaps was not the worst thing in her appeal to grant them some time… just exhausting at whiles. Occasionally she wondered if Arya might even be around all the time on Sansa’s demand. Margaery did not dare to inquire - not that she would have had the chance to anyhow.

Arya moving to take the weapons aside was one of the limited occasions she had Sansa to herself.

Sansa was taking a rather large savor of water, already won back some of her breath and curled her shoulders. After two hours, perhaps some strain that Arya had foreseen had already arrived, and that was why she had settled with so little debate.

Margaery seized the point to cast aside her own sewing work and get to her feet. She picked Sansa’s cloak from where she had abandoned it.

“You are progressing,” she remarked as she held the warm, fur-collared piece out to her.

Sansa made a sheepish face. “Your gasping a deal less, so I take that as a good sign.”

Their fingers smoothed over each other for a lingering moment as Sansa accepted the extended cloak from Margaery, fingertips drifted over the side of her hand deliberately slow as Sansa drew away.

“You are getting better,” Margaery repeated, not troubling to mask from her face how very such a light brush affected her, powerless to contain the smile even if she had wanted to. “Remarkably so in mere three days time.”

“I genuinely expect Arya is just going easy on me, to not altogether discourage me,” Sansa yielded with a gentle voice, one she entirely preserved for Margaery these times.

“You overrate my empathy,” Arya chimed in from the door.

“Perhaps,” Sansa gave in as she adjusted her cloak around her shoulders. “Or your underestimate your compassion for my shortage of talent.”

“Now you are just overestimating my sentiments towards you.”

Margaery could not help the grin at the exchange. While a significant part of her was yet marginally resentful about her confinement, about them using her as a bait for Lord Baelish, the larger faction of her was thankful that it had at least served the purpose of bringing Sansa closer to her sister, of them counting on each other, alike if it was yet hesitant. A month ago Sansa would not have tolerated her sister with a blade anywhere near her, now she encouraged it. That surely was progress.

Besides Arya being around for the grand extent of Sansa’s day, her brother had likewise found a stellar spot in Sansa’s everyday commotion. In a sense, Margaery appeared like an intruder in those idle hours they spend together as a family. The spark of jealousy and mourning over not having Loras in her life anymore was still there when she watched the siblings interact, but it was eclipsed most of the time by the genuine delight she encountered in herself for Sansa, and the content smile that slid into her face during those moments.

Sansa not simply growing closer with her brother and sister, but likewise spending time with them, was something Margaery realized she had longed for, alike if she had never outright said it. If their conspiracy against Lord Baelish and herself, by measure, had contributed to this, then perhaps that was reason enough to accept it, even if she was not wholly in the spot where she could fully condone it.

Her first encounter with Brandon Stark had been… something else. Sansa had introduced her the day after Lord Baelish’s imprisonment, before supper, out in the Gods Wood. It was one of those singular occasions where Arya had not been present, and that was most likely for the best.

“I’m glad to finally meet you,” Bran had told her.

“As am I,” Margaery had returned with her most winning smile. “I owe you a lot, as I have learned. For that I want to thank you.”

“It’s good to meet you in such an upper mood. I know that the confinement was hard on you,” he had continued on.

“Not the best days I spent in Winterfell,” Margaery’d relented with a shrug. “But behind me, luckily.”

Bran had studied her for a lengthy time then. If she’d thought Arya’s eyes read her thoughts, he seemed to see right into her soul, perceiving details about herself she wasn’t even aware of herself.

“If you are still upset with Sansa, seek not to be. It was not a pleasant position for her either. Arya and I were troubled for her. She cried a lot, I think more than she has in a long time.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Margaery could observe how Sansa had lowered her head and stared to the ground. Uncomfortable with the information her brother had shared, both the action and the words ached in her core.

“I will get there,” she had resolved quietly, and her eyes had merely lingered on Sansa’s brother for a brief moment before they’d dashed to Sansa, whose expression sealed the seek for her pledge to be genuine. “I’m certain.”

This was a moment she would have favoured to share with Sansa alone. They had spoken about this, and she had reassured her she was fine, solely the choice to be yet was not enough, she discovered again and again. And perhaps that was further true for Sansa. The knowledge of how much they cherished each other was not enough at this point. They demanded space to carry on from what had transpired, Sansa even more so than herself.

“Join us for dinner?” Sansa had proposed, seeking to alter the conversation down another path.

Bran had shook his head. “I’m better off here. And I already ate not too long ago.”

“I’d hoped that the four of us could spend some time together,” Sansa had sighed at his unrelentlessness. “I don’t like you being out here by yourself this late.”

“I figured you and Margaery would prefer time to yourselves. I realize you both longed for it for some while now,” Bran had returned in a wholly innocuous remark, one that Margaery had not had the attempt to expose them in any way, but he had delivered the truth. Yet, his words had caused Sansa to blush to the root of her hair, something Margaery found endearing, because she had not expected the Lady of Winterfell still had it within her to redden so extreme at simple words.

She knew Sansa had mentioned her brother knew things and saw things… until now she had not presumed that among those things would be entirely so personal details.

“My presence can merely accomplish so much,” Margaery had yielded still, relatively unfazed. “You are her little brother, and you spending time late into the night out here, is one of the things you should not put on top of all she has to trouble about.”

Bran had thought about her words and then nodded. “I presume I could join you for dinner.”

On their course back inside, Margaery had caught that there was still a pink shade to Sansa’s cheeks.

“I expect his ability to see things succeeded his sense of prudence,” Sansa had mumbled then with a shake of her head.

To their surprise Margaery’s words seemed to have affected him, because ever since then Brandon Stark made a point out of receiving every meal together with his sisters and Margaery. He was perhaps not particularly joyful or entertaining company, but Margaery soon appreciated the young man’s company more than she supposed. More so than she had expected after that first introduction.  

His gift, his visions, were an element she had regarded with caginess in the beginning, but in a scene where Sansa and Arya where almost always bickering about something, he was as Sansa had indicated, rather the meditating power. Sometimes in a fashion that made Margaery bite back a chuckle. The sisters would go on for a small eternity about a story that had ensued as they were kids, each of them set on their personal reminiscence of a memory, hung up on some precise detail that each of them recalled differently, and then Bran would jump in correct them both, virtually as a side note to cutting up his meat.

Furthermore, Margaery figured he was a weapon not to be underestimated in whatever wars there were still to come. Having someone who was capable of seeing everything on your side was tremendous, and a weapon that she considered the Starks had not yet applied to its full extent.

Margaery found herself alone with him more and more in the following days. They were frequently the first ones at the dinner table at night, neither of them in the physical condition to attend up the hasty last minute conclusions of everyday business both Sansa and Arya rushed to get done.

More often than not, they remained quiet in those times, it was still pleasant to sit with him. Polite words were unnecessary, only after a few days she felt enough at ease with him that she resolved the desire to fill the silence – something she still struggled with in similar occasions when she was left alone with Arya.

A couple of times he had used the chance to provide her simple words of what he knew, had received or seen; she had not managed to understand how precisely his gift worked. More time than not she appreciated it, especially his discretion. It was knowledge that concerned her foremost, and that he judged not to disclose in front of his sisters.

“Cersei is not aware that you survived.”

Margaery blinked up from the table and looked at him, her eyes flashed to Sansa who was involved in an exchange with Arya at the other end of the Solar, where she leaned over her desk. Sansa caught her stare and presented her a smile that Margaery returned, one she held in place even as she looked back to Bran.

“She isn’t?” she returned in a low tone.

“Littlefinger did not risk informing anybody further than he had to. Knowledge is power. And you were a valuable pawn for him and what he had plotted.”

She did not directly reply something, and he captured that this was not all that concerned her.

“It troubles you that the word might come to her in other means.”

Was it so unreasonable? Many people within Winterfell had learned of her presence, or her true identity, it was public knowledge at this stage more so than a secret. At the time of her own imprisonment it had yet been information only feasible to a few, after that more of Lord Baelish’s people had learned, unquestionably this had spread like a flame. 

“I expect it is inevitable if I don’t wish to hide in the crypts for the rest of my existence,” Margaery retired. “Even further so with the guests to be expected.”

Tyrion Lannister, Lord Varys… those were purely those in the Dragon Queen’s entourage she knew of, there would be very likely more to recognise her.

“You should not worry,” Bran re-instated. “You are protected here. Sansa would never tolerate anything happening to you.”

Margaery smiled a little at this. He had this definite manner to emphasize what she knew. Especially regarding Sansa. With the forced distance they still kept up, the reminder it was not just all in her head was perhaps unneeded, but did not hurt.

“I’m not worried for myself,” Margaery returned quietly.

“Your child.”

She had had time to examine what had happened, and had arrived at the conviction that before Baelish had to alter his plan with the deeming arrival of Jon Snow and the Daenerys Targaryen, it had never been his aim to bring her to King’s Landing. She had not been the stooge, but the child. If he had not run out of time… once she had given birth… a freshly born infant was much smoother to bring all the way to King’s Landing, easier to conceal, simpler to handle - far less of a wild card than she would have been.

What if Lord Baelish was not the last person to realise that? To believe that bringing Cersei her grandchild, the remaining correlation still in the world to her youngest son, would be a significant pawn in these games.

She might not have been fully clear of how she felt for the child, not by far, but recognized it would be up to herself to protect it from that. 

“I have no doubts that Sansa will do everything in her power to protect me.”

“And you assume that excludes your child?”

Margaery sighed. Of course she did not suppose Sansa to be that heartless, only… if Margaery herself could not measure how she herself could react, how she would react to a child that carried even a slim resemblance to Cersei… Margaery was the parent, would tend for it whether she chose to or not, at least she hoped so, either way already felt the need to protect it. But Sansa? Yes, she might have cared for her, but that did not pass by default for her child.

“I hope not,” she answered.

“You should inquire with her, if this burdens you,” he declared after a note of reflection. “Keeping secrets is what led to disputes between you in the first place. Sansa knows enough to not perceive the world as black and white. Perhaps you are blinded still by the hurt over your role in Lord Baelish’s imprisonment.”

He established a decent point, she had to concede.

She had no misconceptions that what the confinement had forced her through -that Sansa had put her through it despite knowing of her innocence- had affected her, despite her awareness that it had not been a simple decision for her. Perhaps it weighed greater on the faith she had in Sansa than she wanted to admit.

“Jon and the Dragon Queen will arrive within the fortnight,” Sansa’s voice broke her reflections as she and Arya moved back to the table. “We received a raven. They started travelling from White Harbour.“ Margaery took in the tightness of her lips and the pensive look in her eyes.

“You seem worried,” Margaery noted.

Sansa caught the apprehension from Margaery’s side and shook her head, displaying a not utterly convincing smile.

“Merely overwhelmed. I ought to have everything ready by the time they make it here and I’d suspected we had more time,” Sansa mused, her mind seemingly already arranging the dozen of tasks that she would yet require to get into order.

“What specifically needs to be ready?” Arya asked and dropped onto the chair opposite Margaery. “Are we providing a feast for foreign invading queens now?”

Sansa gave her a glance, close to rolling her eyes. “Don’t be absurd.” With winter and war on their doorstep, they surely had no resources to spoil for grand festivities. Not that there was anything to celebrate anyway. “I don’t imagine Daenerys Targaryen’s entourage to be incredibly small. They will need a place to sleep. And her troops will be enormous. We will need to look at our stock rations.”

“I’m curious for her,” Arya said, a hint of genuine intrigue playing on her face. “But even more so for her dragons.”

Sansa simply shook her head, somewhat amused by her sister’s words and threw Margaery a conniving grin. “When we were children Arya could not be troubled to read a book if her life depended on it; Septa Mordane claimed it would be necessary to tie her down otherwise she would not sit still long enough. - _Unless_ you handed her a tale about dragons. Then she was not to be seen for the rest of the day, quietly devouring it, sitting in the same spot for hours.”

It was visibly noticeable that Arya appeared not to like Sansa disclosing this information. It did not fit into the picture she wished to present, especially towards Margaery, as the fearless girl, the courageous soldier who was beyond being excited over childlike daydreams.

“I get that,” Margaery threw in. “The tales of Rhaenys and Visenya where perhaps the only one I’d have my septa read more than once. There was something fascinating about the way they were depicted and how they rode the dragons.”

Even while Arya gave her hardly more than a very brief look, Sansa smiled at the admittance, “I would have taken you more for the romantic tales of beautiful castles, pretty princesses and handsome princes.”

“It takes one to know one,” Arya told her sister. “If I recall that was the only work to constantly be found in your hands.”

Sansa gave her a sour look and shook her head. “I read all kinds of books.”

“Now you do,” Bran corrected. “When you were a girl, it was Jonquil and Florian to the stage where you knew it by heart. You and your friends used to strive through the hallways trying to locate the appropriate spot to re-enact your favourite parts.”

“I remember. The chanting was different every time, but the scene of being rescued by the brave knight never altered.” Arya smirked, daring Sansa to disagree with her.

“We played that once or twice perhaps.”

Sansa looked a little embarrassed at her siblings ganging up on her like that and pointing this out in front of Margaery.

Dramatically Arya placed a hand on her chest and delivered in an exorbitant deep voice. “‚Sweet lady, all men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned...’“

Margaery smiled to herself.

“For a while it was an everyday game,” Bran went on. “One that interwound so considerably with your ordinary life mother was growing unsettled.”

“That is right,” Arya confirmed with a growing grin. “You and your friends resolved to not even abandon your characters when going to bed. This led on for days.”

The image of a young Sansa, one before everything in King’s Landing had shattered her, was an adoring one. Margaery wished she had known her back then already. She cherished the stunning strong woman Sansa had become, yet to learn of this side of her was just too compelling.

“It was a particular phase. Not my entire childhood like you two pass it appear,” Sansa replied yet with the slightest amount of unease, that she shook off as she straightened her posture. “You were ramping around playing knights, re-enacting battles you read about, I was doing this.”

“Did those games ever collide?” Margaery asked, fairly curious.

She and Loras had played similar games when they were children. It had usually quickly turned into a big turmoil where two dozen children had joined them, and they had played out entire tourneys.

“Not as much as you expect,” Bran described. “We were set on our fighting which ran on overly long for Sansa‘s liking. She just wanted to get to the time where the gracious knight saved her.”

“So profoundly impatient for the knight in shining armour?” Margaery teased.

Margaery’s mouth was quicker than her mind. Looking at Sansa, seeing her like now with a slight smile, receiving her so very relaxed, it was sometimes easy to forget that they were not supposed to talk quite like that, were not alone.

“Childish dreams. I learned,” Sansa’s tone was earnest, but the look, the glint in her eyes as she took in Margaery for a long note did not match it at all.

Margaery obscured most of her smile with a small sip of her drink, her eyes remaining on Sansa for a long moment.

In moments like this one, neither Arya’s nor Bran’s presence made a difference. The air between her and Sansa held a certain charging, despite them not being alone, despite all the things that still remained unresolved between them.

No matter that their exchanges mainly ran around the general themes of Winterfell and the awaited appearance of Daenerys Targaryen. Occasionally the interaction ran deeper than this whether they aimed to or not. It could be a look Sansa gave her, like now, in her tone when she sought for her judgment in a matter, in a step they took around each other, in a modest gesture.

They could sit at a table together engaged in a discussion about the pit latrine, and all that Margaery achieved to think about then was reaching out for Sansa’s hand; could see it was the same for Sansa.

This craving, because she restrained herself, because it was off-limits, was something unfamiliar to Margaery. Never before had she had to hold herself back around someone. She had always acted as she craved, not bearing much with this dancing around. Not when it was as plainly obvious they cared for each other so genuinely, wanted the same thing.

Yet, they returned from these moments quickly, nonetheless. Despite the strong yearning, despite perceiving how perfectly incredible already acting upon it would be, no matter how regularly she longed to just close the distance between them once and for all, she didn’t. Understood why, for once, it was crucial not to.

Other things held greater importance now; patching their friendship had priority to the still unresolved state of their relationship.

“Will we be expected to receive the Dragon Queen with a curtsey?” Arya was not subtle in altering the subject after a small stage of peering between her sister and Margaery, though her question sounded earnest and like she was actively speculating about it.

Sansa tore her eyes away from Margaery as she chuckled. “I wouldn’t predict you to master a curtsey if your life depended on it.”

“I’m being serious,” Arya returned.

“So am I,” Sansa passed back, yet an amused smirk on her lips. I would alone urge for you to curtsey should you choose to vigorously provoke her.”

“Are you confident you are in any position to make fun of my physical capacities today,” Arya challenged with a lifted eyebrow.

“It is a reasonable query,” Margaery weighed in. “If your brother has bent the knee, that establishes her as your queen by expansion.”

“What about you?” Arya’s eyes charged to her. “Will you curtsey for her?”

“It seems like a minor sacrifice,” Margaery returned calmly.

“I imagine it to be strange,” Arya continued on with defiance in her mood. “Not very long ago you were the queen, and people called you ‘your grace’ and they bowed for you. Now to be so on the other side of it? That won’t trouble you?”

Margaery could observe that Sansa was a breath away from berating her sister for the remark. She beamed her most disarming smile at Arya.

“I agree that it will be odd perhaps, but I perceive when to swallow my pride,” she declared, and her hand swept over her stomach, wilfully, but she passed it as an incidental gesture. “And I consider I’m in no position to establish one of–if not the–most powerful women my enemy for falsely placed pride.”

For a silent moment Arya sized her up with those powerful dark eyes; Margaery did not succumb to it, but carried her humble smile in place. It was not notably difficult because she was being sincere. Bending the knee to Daenerys Targaryen sounded like a modest price for herself and for her child. She recognized that it was a different matter for the Stark siblings, but alike they were restricted in their capacity to participate in power games, which she was confident Sansa realized, no matter how unsettled she was with her brother’s decision to surrender the North.

“I agree. A display of deference is a minor price to pay in what aid she can provide us against the Night King,” Bran spoke up. “I see that neither of you are content with what Jon did, but I consider he did so for the proper reasons.”

“Perhaps,” Arya relented drawing her eyes from Margaery and towards her brother. “Nevertheless, I think we should reduce the displays of honouring her to a minimum.”

“I agree,” Sansa told with a thoughtful nod. “We support Jon’s decision because he is our brother and our King, but she will earn being our Queen.”

Margaery did not voice her apprehension that perhaps they were neither in a position where they could; alike if she understood the Stark sisters reluctance and where they were coming from.

The conclusion of the night turned and passed along like it had for the previous week. Bran was the first one to declare that he would withdraw for the night and as Arya was the one bringing him to his chamber, it allowed a succinct stage she shared with Sansa alone before both of them retired themselves.

She had not moved back into her former servant chamber, alike while she had been moved from the guest house in the same night her confinement ended, into a chamber on the other end of the hall from Sansa’s. Six doors down, fifty-six steps apart.

Those short minutes before both of them retreated were the exclusive time in the day where it was just the two of them, Margaery rejoiced these short moments, to the same measure the portions of remaining awkwardness and hesitation bothered her. An ample reminder of what they had been before and what they missed out on now. Those moments when they had sat in front of the fire in Sansa’s chamber with their hands interlaced, their lips barely more than the length of a muttered sentence apart, with their fingertips drawing into hair and skimming over smooth skin, it seemed so far away, almost like a dream sometimes.

“I’m sorry about Arya,” Sansa apologized into the silence.

Margaery shook her head as she placed her empty cup on the table. “There is nothing to apologize for. She’s being prudent towards me and I can’t fault her.”

“She’s rude, without even trying getting to know you.”

Margaery examined it and developed the conviction it went further than that. It was not just Arya’s remarks tonight, or on any other occasion. It was in the state she watched her when she considered Margaery would not notice. The way her eyes flitted between her and Sansa in particular moments merely to settle on Sansa most of the time with a mild frown on her forehead.

Margaery displayed a slim smile and pondered solely a short instant. “Does Arya know the full extent of what … occurred between us?”

Sansa blinked for a tiny moment, evidently not having considered this aspect as a reason for Arya’s behaviour.

“I didn’t tell her,“ Sansa relented then, “but I did not to go through great lengths try to conceal it either. I expect she has pieced the majority together on her own.”

“In that light, her behaviour is practically sweet,” Margaery reasoned out with an amused smile.

“I truly doubt ‘sweet’ has ever been used to describe Arya,” Sansa responded with drawn up eyebrows.

It was though, Margaery felt, and could not detect a stronger term for it. The younger Stark wishing to protect her older sister from the big bad southern traitorous seductress who broke her heart? It was more than sweet. It was the kind of bond with her sister she had hoped Sansa would have.

“She is being protective of you,” Margaery clarified.

Sansa offered her a lengthy weighing face. “I ought to explain her she does not need to be,” she replied thus with the hint of a smile.

For a moment Margaery contemplated whether or not to use this opportunity to address what else bore on her mind, as she glanced down to the huge orb that blocked her from seeing her own feet. “Has she mentioned the child at all? Does this perhaps pose a problem for her?”

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked with a tilt of her head.

“That it is Cersei’s grandchild.”

Sansa’s temporary silence and serious sense of looking at her left Margaery hanging in the balance. It was not something she had discussed with Sansa yet. Not this precisely, not in this light. In her still extremely tentative own sentiments towards the child it was not something she struggled to think too much about, but Bran was right, she required to be genuine with her, and perhaps this was a proper way to discuss the query that burned on her mind.

“Arya may be prejudiced, but in the end I think she perceives to distinguish that.”

“And you?“ Margaery held her breathing for the space of two heartbeats before she rushed on before the courage could leave her again. “After all that Cersei and the Lannisters have done to you and your family?”

Sansa eyes examined her profoundly, blue eyes wary as she seemed to consider her answer carefully. “In King’s Landing they condemned me for my family, for my blood - traitors blood. Or at least that was what they insisted.” She gave a light wave of her head at that mendacious justification. “There is nothing as evil blood you inherit. How could anybody with half a wit blame an innocent child for something people did long before its birth, he or she is never even going to meet.”

The words felt so very reassuring to her, she had not even realized how deep this concern had been rooted in her mind. Not only in regards to Sansa or Arya, but likewise herself. She swallowed the overwhelm and the tears that suddenly wanted to ascend to her eyes. Instead, when her hand wanted to reach out, she allowed it and capture Sansa’s.

“Thank you for saying that.”

Sansa’s thumb brushed over the length of hers, and she found her with an attentive face. “That troubled you?”

How could you doubt that, she meant. The question if she did not know her at all hung in the air between them, if she did not trust her.

Margaery chewed her lip and stared down at the table. “Occasionally, when I’m standing in front of you it seems like my pregnancy, my stomach, establishes this unscalable obstacle between us. And I’m anxious that this will merely change for the worse when it’s a babe with golden curls in my arms instead.”

Sansa regarded her words, did not provide a lie in order to settle her fears, instead appeared to search in herself for her genuine sentiments.

“You are not wrong. It is troublesome sometimes. But more the very eminent reminder of your dishonesty, than who the child is related to. I meant what I said,” she concluded. “I know better than to blame an innocent babe for something it bears no responsibility in.”

Eyes churned with emotions dashed up to Sansa’s face. The question of if she would protect her child as she would protect her burning on her lips, only she could not bring it past them. Felt silly suddenly to ever question her trust in Sansa in the first place. How could she when Sansa looked at her with such gentle eyes?

“It will be your kid, a part of you,” Sansa continued on, noticing the remnants of her reluctance and resolving to eliminate those. “If it only carries the slightest resemblance to you I’m afraid I will be scuppered.”

Margaery gave her hand a small squeeze at the wonderful reassuring words.

Every night of the preceding week, the severeness of the distance between them, the severeness of what had diminished between them was never as obvious as in the note shortly before they’d wished each other good night. Margaery would have loved nothing more than to at least offer an embrace to conclude their day, but Sansa offered no signals that this was something she wanted or perhaps was ready for and so she held back.

It was for the best, Margaery had told herself then. Being with Sansa in a room and not acting on how she felt for her was agonizing enough at points, she did not desire to add to that. Still remembered vividly how Sansa felt in her arms and expected letting go would be so impossibly hard, perhaps it was best not to go down that route. At least not yet.

Tonight she hardly made it to her feet when entirely unexpectedly she found herself embraced by long arms.

It caught her so by surprise for a moment she did not know what to do with herself, stood there and let Sansa pull her against herself. The confusion lasted merely for a heartbeat and then she descended into it, her face fitting perfectly into the crook of Sansa’s neck, her arms enchasing around Sansa’s shoulders. It was not entirely the consolation she revelled in this gesture. Even more so Sansa’s warmth, her scent, the soundness of her hold while she at the same time appeared so incredibly soft against her.

Relenting Sansa’s embrace at last was not as agonizing as she had anticipated. Of course she longed for more, but what prevailed was mainly gratefulness for being permitted this moment in the first place.

When Sansa pulled back, her hands lingered on Margaery’s arms, then one of them slipped between them and poised over her belly.

“May I?”

Margaery nodded, the tentative smile growing when she noticed one tucking on the edges of Sansa’s lips as her palm came to settle on the top of her stomach. It was the most comforting, sweetest gesture that Sansa could provide her after the apprehension she had just uttered.

“It is not precisely gentle with you,” she determined after a moment as Margaery’s hand covered Sansa’s and moved it to where what she suspected was a foot poked through the wall of her abdomen. “Isn’t it painful?”

“Uncomfortable at times,” Margaery conceded. “The kicks are not always this strong. I think it knows it has an audience.”

Or could it be more that the child was reacting to her own heart pounding in her breast?

Sansa smirked. “A true Tyrell it seems.”

When Margaery lay in bed that night, the pounding in her chest had not yet slowed entirely, and the smile was likewise still there.

A certain grasp of content had lapsed into Margaery’s consciousness throughout the last days and tonight it remained with her through closing her eyes, spread through her insides like a warm beverage. For the first time in months, perhaps indeed longer, there were no extensive reasons of concern for her. Not points of menace, not to her own survival, not to anybody she cared for, no major struggles of any kind–no further secrets. It was practically unsettling after all this time she had fretted and pondered about so many matters.

She had not trusted the sense, for the anticipation that it would not last, yet for now as she slipped away into sleep she decided to permit herself to revel in it, instead of doubting it; if only just for tonight.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.. I know that took a while... sorry about that, I'm coming out of a few pretty stressful weeks at work. Either way, I hope you thought the wait was worth it. The next couple of chapters I hope to finish a whole lot quicker. 
> 
> As always I'm very, very eager to hear what you think. Any of you miss the drama and the angst yet and getting bored with how smooth everything is going? (...I am a little) Did you like the Tyrell/Stark interaction? I’m a bit nervous of my characterization of Bran so I would love to hear what you think about that! 
> 
> On another note, as I already told some of you in the comment section: I adapted my plan for the rest of this story a bit (and only about for the twelfth time since I started writing).   
> Even though I originally planned my own version of what happens once Dany and Jon arrive in Winterfell, with season eight so close, I made the decision to integrate whatever will happen in the new season into this story.   
> This mainly means three things:   
> 1\. I won't be able to stick to twenty six chapters I aimed for.  
> 2\. After chapter twenty three we will have a break until season eight has finished (though by rate I’m going right now, that might work out just fine).  
> 3\. More for you to read in the end.
> 
> Wishing you all a very nice week ahead! Thank you for reading!


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great, great thank you to the precious response I received to the last chapter!   
> I loved every single comment, every Kudos, every subscription so much and am very glad that the weeks of missing updateds did not scare you off.

When Sansa had fallen asleep, it had been a considerable while later than normal. It was not infrequent for her thoughts to draw circles in those minutes before sleep, as of recent that was when the most worrisome ones, those that threatened to keep her awake deep into the night, to twist and turn, surfaced. Tonight for the first time since forever, a smile had been on her face as she had propped her head on the cushion, curled up into the blankets.

That certain grasp, the hopeful prediction that everything perhaps would be all right after all, was as exulting as holding Margaery in her arms had been. Her mind was almost brightly awake, despite the physical exhaustion of the day, the heaviness in her limbs that the training session had left her with.

The delicate, tentative spark of confidence that everything could go back to as it had been, had her almost too excited to fall asleep, eager for what the next day would bear.

Even while she had aimed for it, alike with Margaery back in her life, she had not quite dared to believe everything could go back to the state it had been before. It had taken them a week to get there, but tonight it had almost appeared like it.

Perhaps it was not exactly as it had been before, merely that did not feel like a bad thing. Perhaps they were not as physically close as they had been in the days before Margaery’s revelation, but in a sense that reached beyond that, she considered they were getting to a stage that was indeed closer than before.

Even if they yet required time to figure out how to approach it, even if she still went through a particular sense of doubt, noticed that not alone from her side, it was in a healthy, an appropriate measure, and she knew that they were definitely moving forward anew.

The next morning Sansa woke up with a smile on her face. Too much time had passed since the last time that sense of content had lapsed into her conscious while she was still halfway asleep. A full moon almost accurately.

Every other day she’d been on her feet even before her first conscious thoughts, not granting them to drift, or to gather in apprehension. Today she had let this agreeable feeling wrap her up, the recollections of her dreams had still been faintly in her consciousness, her bed had been so warm and comfortable.

The transition from those vague notions of her dreams to the memories of the previous night had been seamless - and had been erased from mind harshly with her with the first attempt to move.

A spasm that chased through her shoulders and neck tore a groan of discomfort from her throat.

She was irrevocably awake after that, no longer smiling.

It took minor listening into her body, assessing her movements to figure out what led to this painful stiffness in her arms and neck, as she all very gently pushed herself up to sit on the side of her bed. It was like someone had lamented her back with a large wooden rod. Raising her hands higher than her chest was hardly achievable, not without painfully contracting muscles. Turning her head was outright impossible.

It was what Arya had warned her of – caused by the lack of posture during their last practice. Sansa had fallen asleep with a certain tenseness in the muscles of her neck, only she would have never believed that it could develop into this.

It took a considerable deal of struggle and time, and drew a whole bunch of quiet curses from her lips to bring her to where she had ended up, sitting at her vanity and glaring at her dishevelled reflection. She had hardly achieved to lace her dress halfway up and it hung open over her upper back, with her hair spilling over her shoulders tousled after she’d given up any attempts to brush it. Could not achieve doing that as carefully as would have been needed.

Thus ended her attempt to pursue her morning routine as usual. The admittance that this was as far as she would get on her own brought a degrading sense of helplessness to her, one that Sansa did not allow herself to fully think about. She was not exceptionally great at needing help, at accepting it, and with that, her own frailty.

In the sole means to deal with it, her emotions shifted into annoyance instead. This kind of physical discomfort was just about the ultimate last thing she could use today. Off the top of her head she could list about two dozen matters that required her attention before noon only, none of them particularly swift to achieve, and the longer she sat there looking at her reflection the more time she lost. She was already way behind her own schedule even when the sun had not even ascended.

It was entirely that growing agitation that finally prevailed over her unwillingness to obtain help.

Still she could not bring herself to do the easy, the practical thing, and send for a maid to help her. Sooner she would consider stepping outside into the courtyard just throwing a cloak over herself before presenting herself to one of the servants in this state. It was false pride, unquestionable, but one she could not shake off.

The idea to send for her sister instead she likewise abandoned in the same point the notion occurred in her mind. This was not a scene where she considered Arya her best option, and not merely going by her absence of braiding skill.  

The sole remaining alternative, the one which she had resolved on was not all entirely appealing to her either, simply more tolerable. And she anticipated it would demand less of an explanation, or at least she hoped so.

A soft knock on the door occurred not long after sending for her and Margaery put her head through the crack of it.

 “Good morning.”

The enthusiastically lively smile Margaery offered her Sansa couldn’t   _not_ return, despite her discomfort, despite the apprehension she perceived growing in her chest, it was a reception by default that one of her own appeared on her face upon looking at her.

“Good morning,” Sansa greeted.

After a good amount of times this morning where a turn of her head had produced a twist of tenderness to pulse through her back, now Sansa slowly angled her whole body towards Margaery in order to look at her.

When Margaery took a cautious step inside the chamber and closed the door behind herself, Sansa could tell that she sized her and her appearance up already. The unease that flared in her eyes had Sansa doubting her request then. Perhaps appearing quite this helpless in face of was too much after all.

“Thank you for moving to my aid so promptly,” she declared nevertheless.

Yet maintaining a secure distance, seemingly deterring from any presumptions of why Sansa had sought for her, Margaery nodded. “Of course. You need my help with something?”

Instinctively Sansa wanted to nod, but cringed when she pursued to do so, wanted to take a hand to the side of her neck, but did not reach higher than her heart. She swallowed at the distressed expression that emerged on Margaery’s face as she went a step forward, merely to a stop in her move a couple of feet away from her.

“Are you all right?”

“Not altogether,” she came around, drew a clearing breath and scowled. “It’s embarrassing, honestly.”

Margaery blinked in uneasy expectation. “What is it?”

With an exasperated sigh shifted towards her, the strained look that reached her face with the move, giving Margaery an understanding of what was going on. “I’m afraid Arya’s prediction yesterday was reasonable.”

For merely a very brief flash Margaery lost control over her features and only barely stifled a smirk, the concern vanishing almost wholly. “You overstrained yourself?”

Amusement was a number easier to take than obvious sympathy, Sansa decided, alike if it did not rest quite right with her either. It was not like she needed Margaery to worry for her, but smiling at her suffering did not sit well with her own irritation.

“I cannot raise my arms higher than this,” Sansa admitted, humiliatingly demonstrating so by lifting her hands only the slightest portion of the surface of the vanity. “I’m not capable to lace my gown or do my hair.”

Despite the warm expression that played on her face, Margaery chuckled, as she settled a palm against her heart. “Your face had me predict that someone died.”

“Only my dignity,” Sansa gave a smile. “Still, I’m relieved my misery offers you quite such delight.”

Margaery tilted her head and took another step closer, biting her lip. “I’m sorry. Sincerely. I ensure that it does not cause me particular joy to meet you in pain. I realize that a dreadful ache can force you mindful of those muscles you didn't even realize existed.”

“Or how many you demand for something as plain as brushing your hair.”

Margaery took another hesitant step forward and again held herself. “And you want me to-?”

“If you wouldn’t mind…” Sansa answered hurriedly, but let the sentence draw off.

Words could not convey the awkwardness that shifted into the mood between them at the hesitant exchange.

For Sansa it was not so much that she minded needing Margaery’s help with this, she was beyond being nervous in allowing her help with something so simple. It was Margaery after all. Margaery whom for nearly three months had brushed and braided her hair on an everyday basis. Only now… in their attempt to preserve their distance, it seemed like too much. Too soon.

The wrong basis and reason to take this step.

Even though in all extremely rigid movements Sansa turned to her feet, settled behind the chair and fixed her hands securely on the backrest. Calling the pressing matters she had yet to attend to today to her mind, instead of her own discomfort and hesitation. Better to just get this over with.

“Your sister will not let you hear the end of this,” Margaery declared as she walked behind her after merely another brief flash of hesitancy, a crooked grin on her face, yet a part too amused by her discomfort. Sansa‘s already tense muscles grew even more stiff when she felt warm hands gathering her hair to move it aside.

“I do not plan on telling her,” Sansa returned, finding Margaery’s eyes through the mirror. “I presumed I could rely on your discretion.”

Possibly, she reflected, if she kept the conversation flowing along, this would not be as troublesome as she anticipated.

Placing her long mane over her left shoulder, Margaery lifted her eyebrows cheerfully. “I’m afraid my silence is not-”

Her breath and any words caught in her throat when she saw it. Sansa dropped her eyes, not prepared to receive the consternation in Margaery's even through the mirror.

Margaery’s usual capability, the one to change the topic, to diffuse a situation just like this, to present an unconcerned demeanor and skim past uncomfortableness, what she had counted on, failed to set in. Not a lone word made it past her lips. It could not be more than a couple of seconds yet, but to Sansa it appeared like an eternity that passed.

Sansa was direly aware what provoked this reaction, as it was the reason why she had wasted nearly an hour sitting in front of her mirror, before making up her mind to send for her, why she had elected Margaery instead of a maid, or anybody else.

The genuine measure of the martyred skin on her back was veiled by her underdress, but above the collar, through the open sides of her gown there was enough of her naked back visible to obtain a very distinct understanding of the true extent of it.

Sansa knew each and every of them, recalled distinctly how they had been brought to her skin. The narrow ones, that had been engraved with vicious precision, as strongly as those larger ones, that reached deeper, produced with brutal, unyielded force.

It was a ghastly image, Sansa had no delusions there. She could not fault Margaery for being as taken aback as she was. Margaery might have known about all she had been through, but seeing it was yet a different matter. To discover how much had been done to her, how much she had been battered permanently by his hands.

“It's not a particularly pretty sight, I know.”

She detested how hoarse her voice sounded, hated that she could yet not look Margaery in the eye, loathed that Margaery had not spoken a single word in way too long, alone her heavy intake of breath audible the silence. Hated more than all that she was forced to reveal this to her not on her own terms, because she considered herself ready to do so, but because of such an insignificant detail as tender muscles.

When Margaery still did not strike phrases or movement within her, Sansa’s eyes dashed up to look at her through the mirror, caught the paleness of her face and how her look was fastened to her back.

Unable to take a moment longer Sansa shifted and swung around with her whole body until she stood face to face with Margaery.

“Perhaps this was not the best thought.” She forced a brave smile to her face, that could not cover the vulnerability, the dread that the sight repelled Margaery. “I will send for the maid.”

It was those words, that life, the tiniest bit of colour, returned to Margaery’s face.

“No,” she exhaled her eyes emitting more emotions than Sansa could name. “I’m sorry.”

She placed hands lightly on each of Sansa’s shoulders and steered her to turn back around, and another time she caught Margaery glancing over the scars on her skin, then she met Sansa’s eyes resolutely through the mirror as her hands lingered on her shoulders, still not achieving what they were expected to. It was in just that moment Sansa saw something else besides the inevitable compassion and sorrow in her features; there was more to it. Her lips were pressed together, the line of her jaw set rigidly.

It was anger, Sansa realized.

“If he wasn’t dead already I’d tear him apart with my bare hands.”

It was curious the way Margaery’s voice sounded heartbroken for Sansa, and dangerous with hatred for someone she had never met, all at once.  

The small smile that Sansa gave was genuine and ultimately she relaxed a trace under Margaery’s touch. The sympathy and dismay had been distinctly noticeable in Margaery’s initial reaction, and neither was something Sansa dealt with easily. Anger however...fury over what she had been through, met her own emotions a whole deal better.

“I know you would,” Sansa said, cherishing the warmth that Margaery’s hold emitted on her, felt so very consoled by it just then.  “And I appreciate the sentiment.”

Margaery offered a final reassuring squeeze to Sansa’s shoulders and then nimble fingers dropped from their hold and started to lace the dress. Her eyes were exclusively focused on what she was carrying out, string by string, thread by thread, interweaving and tightening the dress.

Sansa watched Margaery’s reflection work with determination, and alike through that each and every gesture carried an incredible tenderness. All while, or maybe because, reminders of the worst time in Sansa’s life lay bare to her.

It made her feel close to Margaery in a manner that was wonderful. Even if the reason for it was the complete contrary. In this moment it appeared not to count.

She had shared a bed with this woman, had found her lips in countless kisses, had held her when she’d been inconsolable with fear, had spoken to her about matters no one else in the world knew about her, still even acknowledging this, she had never felt this close to her, had not encountered a more intimate moment.

Even when she fully consciously knew that this would push limits they should not yet be near… She had considered that letting Margaery out of her embrace yesterday had been hard, when her body remembered what that felt like and protested to go without it… The craving was even richer in this moment.

Margaery continued her task in silence, either unmindful or oblivious of Sansa not letting her out of her sight. It wasn’t until she arrived at the top of her collar at her nape and closed the last knot there; a thumb brushed skin on her neck, just above her neckline. The rather innocent perhaps even incidental gesture left Sansa’s skin burning and goose bumps erupting at the same time, yearning that Margaery would not have kept it at that, and at the same time grateful that she hadn’t.

 _This_ could not be what made her cross that invisible border.

Still, the notion of how natural it would be to just turn in her arms now and pull Margaery against herself, meet her lips until every recollection of scars, of what she had overcome, was abated from both their memories, would not leave from Sansa’s mind.

Even with the mild pressure on her shoulder, as Margaery indicated for her to sit down and she obeyed, the feeling had not perfectly cleared.

“We should really do something about that jumble of your hair.”

Taking the brush off the table, Margaery drew the hair back and started running it through it.

She cherished watching Margaery working on her hair. With the mundane task, that tense expression from before lifted itself from Margaery; in its place soft concentration, the slightest hint of a frown on her forehead, her tongue darting out from time to time when she struggled with whatever she was pursuing.

Every morning since their fallout weeks ago, Sansa had been wrapped up in a grasp of loneliness in her mornings, had missed Margaery never more than in those junctures where she brushed her own hair. It passed without mentioning that this was not produced out of a sense of privilege. She was - any other day - very much able to braid her own hair, but the closeness to Margaery it granted was what she had forwent. Not just the physical one.

Margaery was her most articulate right after dawn, and the soft conversation that passed back and forth between them had established the silence when Sansa went through her morning routine by herself so strange, almost grim.

She did elaborated work as ever. The braids she set were fairly plain, matching the style that Sansa wore, alone she always added the tiniest bit of a cunning quality to it. An elaborate form of braiding or a specific way to pin it up. It could have been regarded up to the better access someone else had, when it wasn’t just herself doing it blindly, but it was more than that. It was a hint of Margaery in their.

“I’ve missed this,” Sansa conveyed into the silence, words born out of the pleasant familiarity of the moment.

The first hint of a smile emerged on Margaery’s lips then anew as she pushed a pin into a coiled up braid.

“I can understand why. Your hairdos have been lacking a genuine tidiness lately.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows and found a crooked smirk through the mirror, only knowing then that it was a seek to tease her. The berating look she sought to make was significantly subdued by the gentle smile that stretched over her lips.

“You’re awful.”

Margaery tilted her head, eyes tied to the work of her hands, her trademark smile still in place. “So you have said.”

“You take way too much enjoyment in making fun of me,” Sansa observed.

“I consider it only for your best,” Margaery returned unscathed. “You are ruling over the North, you need someone to ground you, so you don’t grow overbearing.”

“Today I have aching stiff muscles to remind me of my limitations,” Sansa returned. “No need for you to strike an already miserable horse.”

“I would have not received you as someone for lamentation.” Hands gathered her hair one further time and smoothed it out back over her shoulders.

“I’m not.”

She wasn’t. Could not stand anyone having to pity her, anyone noticing vulnerability, or her weaknesses. But that was the point, wasn’t it? She was not anyone; she was Margaery. How could she bother about a few sore muscles with all she already knew about her, when she’d just seen parts of her that nobody else ever had.

“Then either the suffering is genuinely bad, or I bring out the worst in you.” Margaery’s hands fell from their accomplished creation and she met Sansa’s eyes, a definite glow in her own. “Either way, you deserve my sympathy.”

Sansa hesitated for a short note before she let her hand reach out to the strap that rested on the counter of the vanity, a mention of insecurity was back when she glanced up to Margaery, standing thus and holding the accessory out to her.

Taking the leather belt from her, Margaery turned it between her fingers for a flash. “I’m afraid I will require your direction on this appendage,” she declared.

Sansa smiled, this pleasant nervousness back in the pit of her stomach, a charge of anxiety running through her. Braiding her hair had been acquainted, had been safe, now they were again passing to unfamiliar territory.

If Margaery felt hesitant it wasn’t evident, she only followed Sansa’s directions and tightened the narrow leather strap first around Sansa’s shoulders, spanned just below the neckline of her dress.

For how unfazed Margaery behaved the more mindful of her every breath was Sansa. She came so unbearably close that Sansa could feel the warmth she was emitting, could smell the faint hint of rose water, as her hands came around her to crisscross the two ends behind her back.

The moment went almost too swiftly and what a minute ago had seemed overbearing, now again seemed like not nearly sufficient as she drew backward. Margaery tightened the belt around her waistline. Closing the edges would have been something that Sansa would have been capable to cover herself, but Margaery did not inquire about that, simply sealed the claps as if she realized that Sansa could not count on the movement of her own hands in that moment - for decidedly different reasons than the soreness in her back.

The moment that Margaery turned and moved to collect Sansa’s cloak, she needed to release the breath she had been holding; her breathing becoming shallow later again when Margaery arranged the cloak over her shoulders and through the moment thereafter when a smiling face was facing up at her as fingers adjusted the chain that linked to her belt.

“There we go,” Margaery stated with composition in her tone. “Dashing as ever.”

Sansa smiled, restraining herself to reach out for Margaery’s hand… from moving at all.

Any other day Sansa prided herself in her strong self control–for the second time this morning now, it was hanging on by a terribly fragile thread.

“Thank you,” she exhaled.

“No need to thank me,” Margaery spoke smoothly.

Her fingers continued toying with the links of the chain, something that could have been misread as final improvements, if it had not been for the unbelievable darkness, the longing in the eyes which bore into her own, as they unmistakably dashed to her lips for the duration of a heartbeat.

On many other occasions the air between had carried this special charge; each time Sansa had told herself that it was best not to give into it, that they required space. Only in this instance, her mind could not come up with a sole reason why she had received it as relevant.

The split of a second before Sansa was fit to fling all good resolutions overboard, a knock on the door shattered the spell, and instead of towards each other, they were instead both taking an inevitable step back.

Sansa smoothed her palms over her skirt, not daring to so much as glance at Margaery again.

“Come in.” She felt out of breath as she delivered the words. 

It took all of two seconds for an irritated expression to establish on Arya’s face after she’d appeared in the doorway and looked between them.

“I am sorry to disturb.” She went on not even seek to sound like she meant it. “You weren’t at breakfast. I wanted to see what _” -_ her eyes flitted to Margaery than to Sansa- “… _kept_ _you._ The pantler is waiting.”

The instinct to provide an explanation for her running late, for Margaery’s presence in her chamber at such an early hour, was so overwhelming Sansa only barely withstood, felt a warmth in her cheeks.

It was entirely the expression of disapproving that would not move from Arya that pushed her to remind herself that that she was not doing anything wrong here, nothing that justified needing a clarification. And even if there had been, it was none of Arya’s interest.

Arya’s quite improper attitude, the disapproving look on her face, was wrong.

It was conceivable that the chance her sister had just robbed her of, the intensity that had built in herself which wanted an outlet in a different form but just then she felt fed up with that passive aggressive attitude Arya carried whenever Margaery was around.

This was bordering on more than just rudeness, it was absolutely unreasonable.

Remained unreasonable even if Margaery was right, and she was being protective of her; it was not her place to be. Yes, Margaery had not been honest, had hurt her by that, but that was her resentment to have and overcome, not Arya’s.

Sansa was resolved to address these concerns to her sister at the first chance that would present itself.

Alone in an incredibly active day the chances to do so were limited. The dawning arriving of Jon and the dragon queen had Sansa as supposed, unusually busy. Arranging for the enormous number of additional people who would inhabit the walls of Winterfell would be a prodigious task as she had guessed and left the day to be a frenzied one.

Throughout the morning they were moving from one matter to the next.  She had not been mistaken in her assumption that her delay in the first hours of the day forced her behind in the plenty of tasks she was required to deal with and take care of.  Still, despite the discomfort and strain in her whole upper body Sansa was content with how speedily she progressed through her chores. While perhaps full, it was one of these days where she dealt with one issue promptly after the other. It was demanding, perhaps, but not necessarily in a bad sense, because she considered she was indeed accomplishing something. It was one of these days where she felt like she was born to do just this.

That boasted feeling was steeply and abruptly dimmed when Margaery offered a narrow smile in the early afternoon and declared that she would skip the inspection of the glass gardens.

Sansa’s eyes took her in, recognized only then her weary character of her expression. “Are you all right?”

Margaery presented a marginally anguished smile. “I am. Just too far along, and too enormous to yet hold up with your pace. My feet and my back are killing me.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Sansa chastised with a sway of her head, higher dismayed with herself for not regarding sooner than with Margaery for not apprising her about it.

The question why she had not given more consideration, had not thought that Margaery could not strive through the castle as quickly as Arya and herself, pondered on her mind.

Any other day she looked to unbothered with Sansa’s pace, but any other day she likewise received a break at noon, during Sansa’s and Arya’s trainings sessions in the great hall - which they had skipped today.

“I am now,” Margaery yielded. “I know you have a lot to do still and I don’t aspire to be the millstone around your neck slowing you down.”

The concern Sansa felt failed to cease, simply the frown on her forehead grew deeper. “Then go rest,” she asserted with a nod. The uneasy feeling in her chest had her add, “I’ll send the Maester to look at you.”

“She said she’s tired, not sick,” Arya threw in. She’d remained a couple feet away and followed the exchange impatiently, her tone only an octave away sounding like an annoyed groan.

Sansa shot her sister a look, but Margaery offered a smile. “She is right. No need to overreact, I simply require to get off my feet for a while.”

It sounded reasonable of course, yet the perceiving that Margaery was almost as proud of a character as she was, one who never shied away from stress or stain, and whom had to be highly miserable to reveal that she was at her limit, caused her anxiety.

“Do me the favour?” Sansa insisted still.

One hand braced into her lower back Margaery nodded, the yearning to get off her feet bigger than the need to win this argument.

“If it soothes your mind, send for him,” Margaery relented at last with a nod.

With the promise to find them for supper, Margaery drew away through the courtyard, in gradual and tedious steps, making her path up the stairs to the gallery. Sansa watched her until she was out of her field of vision. Chiding herself again for not offering better consideration to her and what she had needed. It was still so simple to see Margaery just as Margaery, not as someone who was in the last stages of her pregnancy. It was negligent of her to just pass that up as not important most of the time.

“Once he’s finished determining that she is in splendid health, perhaps he could take a look at you,” Arya commented once Sansa had assign a servant with requests to have the Maester examine Margaery.

Sansa took a calming breath; she did not know what bothered her more, that Arya had embraced the moment of Margaery’s absence to let go of her moping attitude, or the comment itself.

“Don’t,” she said with a warning side glance as they made her path to the gardens.

“I consider I’ve restricted myself for long enough to make fun of your obvious soreness,” Arya taunted, effortlessly keeping up with her hurried stride.

“That is not what I meant,” Sansa returned, hissed practically. “Don’t downplay my worry for my friend.”

With those words Arya looked to be in a feisty spirit directly. “I have observed you be concerned for your _friend_ for too long now.”

Sansa shook her head, reaching a stand in a narrow passage between buildings, looking at her sister in plain bewilderment. “Why are you so determined on not liking her?”

It took Arya a moment to catch that her sister had stopped, and she turned then, deliberately approaching her.

“I don’t trust her,” she corrected.

“Why not? What reason has she given you for that?”

The glare on Arya’s face had the sought impact of forcing Sansa’s last words to sound utterly stupid.

“She made mistakes,” Sansa acknowledged, had been prepared for just this argumentation with Arya, but later continued on a mention more fierce, “But if I can see past her deceit, why is that so incredibly complicated for you?”

Arya was silent for an instant too long thus, like she was studying whether or not she should assert her genuine position to Sansa; leaned back against a wall tucking her hands behind herself.

Her tone was collected and unbiased as she spoke, prudent to be not as intense as it could have been. “She’s been wed to three Kings and outlived all of them. She may be outstanding at her part of the remorseful concerned mother-to-be, but she can play it as exquisitely as she wants... people who are greedy for power don’t just let go of it because they wish to.”

Sansa shook her head, a hint too fast to consider them properly. “She married three King’s because she had to pass the best out of her circumstances,” she returned, her tone hushed as she was struggling to be conscious of anyone who could overhear them.

Arya looked calmer than before, a dubious look on her face. “You don’t believe that.”

No, she didn’t, Arya was right. It was a miserable excuse; she knew better. Merely stating this rushed excuse was better than permitting the full truth.

The prospect that one day, that ambitious side of Margaery could resurface petrified her. Not just since Margaery had revealed that she’d be prepared to consider marrying once again if it would be crucial to secure her future.

“I can see that you care for her,” Arya expressed with a mild quality. “Don’t let that impair your judgment.”

“I’m perfectly set in my judgement,” Sansa returned.

“Are you?” Arya tested. “I’d sooner call it wishful thinking.”

The trouble was that what Arya saying was not fully unwarranted. Only perhaps wishful thinking was not the correct term, it was… a leap of faith, one she had only a couple of days ago doubted to yet be ready to give.

“What do you expect to gain by behaving as you do?” Sansa inquired.

It was not apparent to her. Even if Margaery would have been not credible, suggested a menace in any way, did Arya consider being so belligerent would serve that condition in any sense?

“It can’t hurt to remind her that she is not the all cherished and admired queen anymore, but our guest,” Arya stated.

As if Margaery wasn’t conscious of that after a fortnight of being their prisoner. As if she was not aware of her surrendered prestige after months of bedding down in a servant chamber.

“You don’t know her,” Sansa delivered what she considered was the primary issue. “And if you do not want to trouble getting to know her - fine. But for my sake quit treating her like she is presenting an active threat to your life.”

Her sister’s inquiring eyes flashed to her own.

“Do you love her?” It echoed like an allegation, indeed when her tone was quiet.

The question did not lack intensity despite that and was nearly enough for Sansa to lose her balance despite remaining on solid ground. She had predicted that Arya knew that what had developed between her and Margaery ran stronger than simple friendship. Her sister was way too vigilant as to not. Only she had not foreseen her to address it so openly. Talking about something like this was not what they did.

And even if… it was such a loaded question. One she had not even allowed herself to examine in her private reflections, purely because it was so exceedingly complicated.

“I don’t know,” she answered after recovering her poise.

Arya had the slightest hint of a pitiful smile on her lips, her eyes drawing away from Sansa and to the wall next to her. “You are generally a better liar than that.”

Sansa did not know what to retort to that, felt too bewildered, too ruffled by what Arya’s words implied.

Did she love Margaery? Not like she loved her family, not like she loved Winterfell, but… _love_ her?

The question prompted a notice of vulnerability to herself. Loving someone, needing someone, truly doing so, compelled a measure of leaving herself unprotected that she did not consider herself capable of anymore or at least hadn’t for the longest time. So far in her life, neither had brought her very far... and yet...

Sansa made the resolvement of not allowing to have Arya’s implement sidetrack her. This was not a conversation she would have with Arya. Not when she was not confident about it herself, not when she had not even brushed this point with Margaery.

“You are right, I care for her,” it was as far as her confirmation in this matter would pass to her sister. “So for my sake - I’m not demanding you to be her friend, or even like her. But acting civil is something I need you to work out. I have enough to worry about without you creating unnecessary tension.”

For an instant it looked like Arya contemplated whether to aim for another blow, finally seemed to resolve against it. “I don’t trust her,” Arya repeated, this time her voice was softer, laced with regard more than venom.

“Trust me then,” Sansa pleaded and understood that this was perhaps almost an equal struggle for Arya.

They were grown up, but this topic carried too much resemblance to their strained history and that added to their issues. It was not the first time that Sansa trusted in someone Arya didn’t. The last time, the repercussions that followed from that had been tremendous. Sansa could state a hundred times that Margaery was not Joffrey, their past lingered over them like a dawning storm cloud which she could not predict would pass or erupt.   

“You have a too kind heart for people who wronged you.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sansa returned soberly.

Arya’s eyes showed a hint of intrigue then.

“I learned to distinguish between what is forgivable and what isn’t,” Sansa led on, trying to hold the berating in her tone to a pure minimum. Acting superior would not benefit them. “And I believed that you could too.”

“I can,” she allowed. “When I consider it’s earned.”

Sansa shook her head. “I genuinely can’t tell if it is true concern or sheer stubbornness that drives you.”

Arya had her eyebrows drawn up, her expression someplace between reluctance and unmistakable unwillingness. “Can’t it be both?”

“I’m not demanding you to trust her, or even like her,” Sansa relented. “Just be polite. Margaery’s not perfect, but I know that she is a good and kind person.”

Arya sighed and shoved herself off the wall. “Let’s hope you’re right with that predicament.”

It was as close as Arya would get in a concession to allow Margaery the benefit of the doubt for now; it was a modest initial step, but at least that.

Alone after they had proceeded their course to the glass gardens for Arya addressed her sister with another side glance.

“I’ll grant her to be a refinement measured to any of your past endeavours, even though you must recognize the bar is not remarkably high there.”

Sansa chuckled mildly. “Very sharply rounded up.”

The brief break for a secluded conversation was over as the regular work passed on. It proceeded as seamlessly as throughout the morning. Rushing from one task to the next, concluding that while they were progressing in an appropriate pace, it was perhaps yet not as far as they ought to be, not with thousands of men that would turn up in front of the walls of Winterfell within a fortnight.

The half-faulty potato delivery that was forced to their attention in the late hours of the afternoon put a dent into what until then had appeared like a moderately successful day.

Arya had a distinct judgment as expected while Sansa was still balancing whether she could regard it as an earnest mistake or a deliberate choice by House Cerwyn.

“I think we should pay them a visit,” Arya suggested wiping her hand on her doublet after dropping a rotting piece back into the pile. “It is comfortable to recover excuses and cordial phrases of justification in letters, another to face up to it in person.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Sansa opposed. “If I paid a visit to every House who is reluctant in sharing their stocks, I’d be doing nothing else.”

“This is not reluctance, it’s transparent disrespect,” Arya conquered.

“I assume that word about Jon’s decision might have arrived to them,” Sansa spoke and pursed her lips.

“And that’s a reason for risking destroying our entire food stocks?” Arya shot out. “It’s winter, we can’t have people doing as they wish. Either they are sworn to us or they aren’t.”

Normally Sansa tended to disagree, would have granted the benefit of the doubt, if this had been the first incident of this kind - merely it wasn’t. If this was not a mishap, then it was marginal subversive behaviour. They could not endanger their stocks, now more than ever.

While she counted on that the Dragon Queen was sensible enough to have established her own precautions for her people, she could not count on it. If worse came to worst, it would be on the back of Winterfell and theywould be required to tend for them, feed them, keep them warm, treat their wounds.

A mammoth task – and that resolved to not even reach close to describe it. Sansa understood perfectly of keeping the logistics of Winterfell running on a typical day; this was not ordinary work though, this was the groundwork for a war - and something else altogether, something that Sansa thought added greatly to the tenseness in her shoulders.

“We don’t have time for it,” Sansa set forth anew. “Firm words in a letter will have to do.”

“I realize that you have many concerns you require to take care of here, but I’m not essential for that. I could ride to Castle Cerwyn on my own,” Arya proposed as she accompanied her back up the stairs to the gallery. “I could make it there and be back within two days.”

Sansa examined the suggestion for a note and how to tell her sister she did not entrust her degree of negotiation for something this delicate, and landed on precisely that, as she had arrived at the top of the staircase and turned to her. “I do not expect you’re occasional absence of diplomacy would serve this situation. We require conversation, not hands on drawn blades.”

Luckily Arya seemed not insulted by her words, but instead reinforced. “A remembrance we have blades here could not hurt.”

She was not wrong, Sansa perceived, perhaps illustrating strength was what they demanded in this situation. Alone, being perfectly honest, she did not greatly like the thought of seeing Arya leave Winterfell. Jon’s return might have been somewhat dimmed by his company, but that did not mean she was not looking forward to him coming home. For the first time in years they had been forced apart, their family - the remains of their family - would be together again, here in Winterfell. Sending Arya away, alike if solely as far as Castle Cerwyn… it seemed awfully daring considering how close they were to at last being together again.

“Let’s see,” she answered. “For now, I require you here.”

Arya huffed. “For what exactly?”

The admittance that she preferred her here because she concerned for her safety should not have been hard to pass, still Sansa found she could not bring it past her lips. Presenting this kind of vulnerability to her sister… it was an odd reflex, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“I feel protected knowing you on my side,” she provided instead, equally being truthful and knowing that appealing to her sister’s capacities would be favourable.

The graduale concession that came from Arya, that light smile, told her she had played that card just right.

“I expect you will require someone to keep you out of trouble,” Arya gave in then.

Sansa passed her a glance as they reached the last corner before arriving at the Solar. “Because staying out of trouble is such a virtue of yours?”

“Trouble is not an obstacle if you know how to yield a weapon.”

“Lady Stark?”

A voice from behind her pulled her from the on-going exchange. The witty return a moment ago on her lips caught in her throat and the smile vanished off her in a moment’s notice when Sansa found the Maester approaching her with an earnest look on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...does it help if I reveal that she is not in labour?


	21. Chapter Twenty One

Margaery’s back only relaxed gradually once she settled into the armchair. She had pulled the boots off her slightly swollen feet and propped them on a stool while both her hands on her stomach feeling the gentle movements beneath them.

Now that she finally got the much-needed rest, she regarded herself unreasonable for not retreating a lot earlier. With the birth being less than a month away, she required to pace her energy, could not let her pride or indeed her wish to spend time with Sansa still dictate her judgments.

It was the latter what produced the sober thought to be a lot more complex. After weeks of forgoing Sansa’s company, she yearned to spend every waking moment with her. This physical limitation for herself, while Sansa’s days had grown into being more demanding than ever before, was the most regrettable combination.

Only the awareness that this would be for a restricted time passed that thought somewhat tolerable. A couple of weeks more and then she’d finally be in full rule over her own body again. Then she would have all the time in the world to spend with Sansa; whose own days would have hopefully cleared of working throughout all of her waking hours with the return of her brother.

She had not appreciated having to admit it, but when she it before been a challenge to follow Sansa’s long strides, now it was virtually inconceivable. It was not in her capabilities anymore to stalk through the courtyard or step up and down staircases all day long.

There was no use around accepting that she needed to take it a whole deal slower. As she rested there, the exhaustion even after a good while would not leave her, likewise the ache in her back.

When initially Margaery had preferred to shrug off Sansa’s proposal to send for Maester as an overreaction, the longer she had reflected about it, it seemed like the reasonable thing to do. She was positive that there was nothing wrong with her, but estimated if Maester Wolkan could provide some guidance how she could handle with those discomforts-the tiredness, the back pain, the heaviness of her limbs-she should not pass it up.

Taking it slower was her resolve, but after only a couple of days where she had gotten back from sitting in a room all day with nothing to do, she did not long to return to it. Figured that there had to be a some kind of treatment for vitalizing her strength.

The Maester’s inquiring on the intensity of her discomforts was thorough. He sat with her patiently and listened to what she described. As she had foreseen already, nothing she felt was out of the place in a pregnancy as far advanced as her own; alike, the discomforts he inquired about that she had not indeed understood as produced by it.

When he offered her his hand to help her rise from the chair, she took it without reluctance. He had a pleasant serenity about him; likewise, she was beyond displaying false pride to someone to whom she had just revealed the pain she suffered when passing water.

She settled on the bed, her gown opened and her underdress hoisted to her chest. His examination was more profound than the last. He took a good while palpating the swell of her stomach, listening to the child’s heartbeat with the aid of an ear trumpet.

The subsequent internal examination of her womb was something she could have forwent, still tolerated as unavoidable, considered that he had to be more thorough and precise in establishing her state of health because she was getting closer.

Nevertheless content to have it behind her, she moved into a sitting position the instant he was finished, glad to cover herself again by pulling the underdress downward. The throb in her back had nearly halted when she had been lying down, now it came back and she felt as insufficient strength in her feet than she had before.

Margaery could alone make out the side of his face as he washed his hands in a prepared basin with water and dried his hands on a linen towel.

“Perhaps there is a way to strengthen my back?” she inquired. “An exercise, or certain herbs that would help?

It was not purely his absence of a direct answer that bothered her, but likewise the thoughtful manner he focused his eyes on his hands as he dried of finger by finger, as if to gain time before having to answer her.

“You will require to stay off your feet as much as feasible in the coming days,” he declared to her then, dropping the cloth next to the bowl, yet not facing her.

“I realize that I require to take it easy and that rest is critical,” she conceded, maintaining yet a narrow smile. “I only hoped that you’d have means to strengthen me enough so I would not be forced to sit around until the day of the birth.”

When he looked at her eventually she could no longer neglect the serious expression on his face, recognized that the concern she had thought to observe was undeniable, not misinterpret as she would have wished.

“I am afraid that I have to recommend a strict bedrest.”

Despite the composure of his tone and the effort he made to appearing confident, she could sense that this judgment was born out of more than just a general precaution. Margaery swallowed her fear, and her reluctance to inquire further.

“Why?”

He wavered, avoiding to look at her directly.

“Your unwillingness to look me in the eye does not suggest that all is as it is expected to be,” she observed in a solemn voice.

After still weighing another moment he nodded.

“I am concerned,” he affirmed ultimately, yet seemingly averse to look at her, but compelling himself to do so. “The mouth of your womb is already marginally opened, which means a delivery is not unduly long away.”

Margaery glanced down at her stomach, her dress still hung open and the white linen underdress was the sole barrier covering it. “While early, it is not too early?”

Babe’s being born a moon before they were due was not uncommon. It was something she doubted would be so soon as to create any problems.

Going by a physical point of view, that was; the preparedness of her mind was a whole different situation.

The childbirth, while an objective of regard, was something that created her nervousness, was not nearly as disconcerting as the concept of becoming a mother, being someone’s mother, of having to face this small creature as further than just something that moved and kicked inside of her.

“It’s not the progress of your condition that concerns me,” he clarified, clutching his hands in front of him. “The opening of the womb is a foreseen development at this stage.”

“But it concerns you yet,” she concluded.

The restraint he had over his face was faltering. She recalled having looked at this tightness in it before, the first time he had examined her where she had been too hesitant, too absorbed with separate matters to question it. Now she did not have the comfort of more vital matters any longer.

“What are you not telling me, Maester?”

Anew in the flash before he shifted his back to her she saw something that appeared dangerously dire in his face.

“I will prepare you a potion that will suspend an advancing birth,” he spoke roaming through the wooden chest he had carried along, passed her a short, what she assumed should be a reassuring look.

Patience was any other day something she had not trouble with, but his eluding attitude alarmed her more than she could say, had her suspect that he withheld something dreadful from her.

“I don’t wish you to worry,” he insisted, his attention directed to dried herbs he measured into a mortar. “The birth might be advancing quicker than I predicted, but there yet is time.”

“Time for what?”

He went on not responding her or turning to her as he led to work with the pestle.

“Maester Wolkan,” her tone rang sharply enough for him to drop any further stalling antics. As he turned towards her, her eyes took him in equally fierce. “I deserve to know what is going on.”

He looked yet timid to answer, but then abandoned his utensils, swept herbs off his hands and took a step towards her.

“The position of the child is not as I hoped it would be at this stage,” he relented. “The child is yet sideways.”

She had no certain comprehension what that meant, but even though, when she had no precise knowledge of childbirth, the forced means he conducted his tone to be reassuring, led her to feel uneasy.

She swallowed her fear, compelled herself to get better information instead. “What does that mean exactly?”

For a note he appeared at a loss how to explain it, thus moved in front of her, squatted down as she looked at him with apprehensive eyes, and brought one of her hands to the right side of her abdomen, urging it solidly into the mold beneath the fabric, letting her feel the child.

“What you feel here is the child’s head,” he explained after releasing the hand, that still sat where he had moved it, still feeling the curve of it. “Which should not be at the side of your womb anymore. At this point it should have already moved down into your pelvis.”

Her palm explored what he had presented to her, she had felt it before, occasionally it had disturbed her when resting on her side at night; it had been like this at the time of her confinement already, simply she had rounded it up it as an inevitable, but usual discomfort.

Perhaps she lacked his thorough knowledge in the matter, but she had sufficient insight to figure out what he was struggling to explain her. The child could not be born as long as it was in this position. It was physically not achievable. And if the birth advanced, and this would not change…

Her throat had closed up. There were a million things that she should have asked, only she did not find it in herself to say anything, too struck, too shocked to do so.

The fear of giving birth had soared in the back of her mind invariably since she had discovered she was with child. How could it not? Merely that had been fear of pain, fear of becoming a mother, all while yet expecting that all was as it should be.

The possibility that it could not be, she had not factored in.

Observant eyes took her in as he rose and pulled a chair opposite to her. Once he sat down, he studied at her with insistence. “I was hesitant to disclose this because I perceive that it sounds frightening, and I did not want you upset.”

Margaery shot him a look.

“I would not say it if I was not confident,” he vowed, gathering her thoughts off her face. “There are dozens of descriptions of babes turning only days or hours before the birth.”

Dozens.

In the countless that were born every day.

That did not sound like odds that were remarkably encouraging.

She regarded herself so foolish suddenly. Not only for her unpreparedness, but likewise for the pleasant sense of content she had granted within her mind. It had seemed too easy, too smooth, and she should have depended on her instinct in that.

In her lunacy to keep the pregnancy a secret for so long, in seeking not to let it to her conscious and all that passed with it... If she had only been a hint more attentive - smarter - this would not capture her in such dismay as it did.

Would not feel nearly as paralyzing, she suspected.  

Those tiny fragments and occasions where she had caught herself looking forward to having this child… she should have known better.

She forced a rich inhale of air into her lungs, pushed herself to rationalize this and not let her fear impair her line of thinking. This what not the fault of the child. Or her own. I was a senseless mood of the Gods, of nature. If the Maester claimed there was hope, then who was she to question his knowledge?

“So bedrest,” she concluded when she found her voice again, having obtained authority over the fear and also sufficient in command to let her logical side prevail.  “Is there anything else we can do?”

Bedrest was indeed the foremost priority. He elaborated to her that she should avoid any substantial strain, stay off her feet. It was the surest way of postponing the time of the birth. Every day without her womb opening further, without contractions setting in, meant one day more where the child could shift.

Changing into her nightgown in the middle of the day made her feel like she was gravely ill. In all of her life she could count the occasions where she had to stick to bedrest, where she had been sick on two hands. Even in her recovery after the wildfire she had been back on her feet when she’d still felt too weak to speak.

What added to the unfamiliarity of it was that she likewise did not feel sick or in any way in need of relaxation.  She felt like pacing through the chamber, stomping through the snow outside in the cool air to clear her head, leaving this room and this situation altogether – yet she sat down on the bed.

Bedrest turned out not just to be bedrest, but one in a remarkably peculiar position. The pillows he had brought in were piled up beneath her lower body, from her hips all the way to her feet. So much that her feet ended up a solid foot raised above her head.

That was second priority - to impose a shift of the child.

It was not extremely comfortable. Margaery did not enjoy sleeping on her back any ordinary day, was usually curled up on her side or on her front, before the pregnancy had been too far advanced for that. Now with her feet raised, it was troublesome as the pressure of her stomach pressed into her rib cage, made breathing marginally harder.

The biggest irony in all that was that he had demanded on her lacing on a corset beneath her nightgown, after a month where she had forgone wearing it. She accepted the argument and the explanation of how it was deemed to help bring the child into the correct position, alone that resolved not to pass it even a hint more pleasant, added to the suffocated feeling in her chest.

He remained with her for a while, continued adding herbs into the mortar, preparing a blend, as he explained that would have the same desired effect of slowing down any progression of her womb opening further.

It tasted of rotten eggs, something that even two cups of tea would not entirely wash away.

“It will make you drowsy,” he resolved her as she drew back the blanket off her bare feet.

“Great,” she concluded dryly. “If I will have to stay in bed all day, sleeping seems like the best thing to do.”

She followed with wondering eyes as he moved a longish figment - something that looked like a bundle of hay and grass neatly wrapped and waived together - to the underside of her foot. She grimaced when she spotted that the end of it was fuming, gleaming. He led it close to her small toe of her left foot, not touching it, but enough to feel the heat.

“They illustrate this in manuscripts from Essos,” he explained to her. “We should allow nothing unattempted.”

The more efforts he established and inflicted on her, the more she had to stifle the pondering over why he delivered such severe carefulness in carrying out each of them, why those means were required at all, when it was so simple for babes to turn on their own. She sensed she knew the answer.

His various attempts of treatments should have pacified her mind, merely they arrived at the exact opposite, had her doubt her resolution to depend on his assurances from before, that this special conditions of her pregnancy were not as worrisome as it suggested. How could she, when only after an hour he appeared to move heaven and hell to revise it?

“I’ll give you some quiet now so you can rest,” he ruled when her eyes had turned heavy, thus hesitated for a beat. “If you have no objections, I will further fill in the Lady Stark.”

The tiredness made the instinct to oppose in her weaker than it would have been otherwise.

Not informing -not worrying- Sansa with this was what she would have favoured, but that was not eminently reasonable when she’d have to spend the next days -or indeed weeks- in bed.

Likewise, now that they had ultimately cleared the air between them, she perceived it was not desirable to bring along with new deceits, no matter how much she’d believed them to be for Sansa’s best.

At last she assumed it would be better if the Maester was the one to fill her in. He could resolve all the queries Sansa would undeniably have, specifically those that Margaery had not even started to speculate about. Margaery entrusted his capability to not address those grim news in a manner that would unsettle her unduly.

When she achieved a narrow nod of agreement, the potion had forced her incredibly sleepy. She anticipated it as a small blessing, because it held her thoughts from running circles and offered her the hope that she could slip into sleep despite her unpleasant position.

When she opened her eyes again, it had grown dark, she felt woozy and needed a moment to return from what had been a dream to what was reality. Several candles had been lit throughout her chamber, the fire newly set up, which radiated a warmth that made her almost uncomfortably hot beneath the sheets with all the added pillows and blankets around her. The smell of various herbs that the Maester had produced yet persisted throughout the room, the scent of them not nearly as unpleasant as the taste had been, almost bland instead.

A slight smile built on her lips when she spotted Sansa sitting on her bedside, the small table had been brought there and she had her eyes lowered on the work in front of her, the strain in her neck yet evident in her posture as she sat unnaturally upright for the work she was doing.

She had not noticed that Margaery was awake, seemed focused on whatever she was writing. A strand of hair fell over her shoulder and hung critically close to the ink jar, on her forehead the same frown she invariably carried when she was intensely concentrated on something - or when she was upset.

The same expression had been on her face this morning, when Margaery had come to her chamber. Only now their roles seemed entirely reversed. Sansa was no longer the one in a dilemma, that burden had fallen to her.

In one of those brief moments, in between closing a sentence and starting a new one, Sansa looked up from the sheet and right into her eyes at the first glance. In that small juncture there was a lot going on in those deep blue eyes. The initial surprise hardly extended for a heartbeat before it was followed with tenderness, meshed with a decent measure of sorrow, that she sought to conceal with a smile.

Again, that same smile she had carried this morning, when she’d turned to her with so much scaredness in her eyes, offering her a resort from the sight that had left Margaery breathless.

Sansa telling her about what she had survived was one thing, looking at it with her own eyes, seeing scars that split her smooth, ivory skin; seeing what that beast had done to her - it had made her sick to her stomach.

Yet, then it had been relatively simple for Margaery to regain control over herself, merely triggered by the wish to erase any other preposterous conclusions, the belief that Sansa could assume that she could ever strike her as anything but magnificently beautiful out of her mind.

Now she was the one in need of comfort.

That warmth in Sansa’s eyes was incredible consoling, that she was here was wonderful. If it had not been for the hint of sadness. The sorrow, and that once again she was the reason for it, was more than Margaery thought she could take.

Sansa set down the quill and moved the sheet aside, her fingers clutched.

“You speak in your sleep,” Sansa broke the heavy silence, her tone was quiet and at the same stage smooth as a velvet.

Margaery smiled at the remark.

It was not the first occasion someone mentioned that to her, and it never failed to elicit a minor grasp of mortification from her. She was not and had never been a particularly shy person, only dreams still seemed something so intimate, something so personal,… and all while out of her command. It was that last part that perhaps prompted the biggest problem; any other day Margaery very much appreciated being in control.

“It’s not very courteous to eavesdrop,” Margaery gave back a lot more coyly than intended, but the way Sansa’s smile widened just a little prompted her to go on in the same fashion. “Any interesting revelations?”

She did not remember her dreams, rarely ever did, only still felt a specific content that the dreams had led along, letting her gather it was not a nightmare.

Sansa tilted her head. “To my disappointment, no major concession. Most was indeed just incoherent”-a smirk-“but I could make out my name a couple of times.”

Margaery smiled at that too. Even if she did not know if Sansa wanted to taunt her, it was not unreasonable, defined this certain warmth in her chest that could only be produced by a pleasant dream.

Determined to hold on to this notion in herself, and likewise to the lightness in Sansa’s tone, the sparking in her eyes, for as long as she could -before they’d inevitably land on why she was sitting at her bedside watching her sleep in the first place- Margaery batted her eyes coyly. The game of making Sansa blush was something she had not played in too long.

“I reckon then it is not true what they say. Sometimes eavesdropper do hear good of themselves.”

“Seems like it,” Sansa replied with a meagre smile. The blush never arrived on her cheeks, and the spark in her eyes was already again replaced–and way too rapidly- by sorrow.

Margaery turned onto her side as much as her position would allow it, tucked an arm beneath her head. “I take the Maester has apprised you about the reason for me sleeping the most of the afternoon.”

Sansa nodded, and leaned back in her chair, eyes lingering on Margaery, the sorrow in them almost more than Margaery could stand. “I can’t leave you out of my sight for even a moment it seems.”

“I assume you overrate your influence in this particular situation,” Margaery replied, her voice tried and failed to attempt lightness.

“How are you feeling?”

Margaery shrugged. She’d only just woken up, it had not all settled back to the forefront of her mind, she was not clear if it had even before, considered it would take her more than a couple of hours to wrap her head around this new knowledge. The days to come would allow her time for that, and part of her was frightened of what would come if it did.

“Annoyed more than anything at the moment,” she resolved. “To be yet again forced to remain inside.”

Forced to renounce your company.

When she’d withdrawn inside earlier that day, she’d almost counted it as a small blessing, a short break in what had appeared to exhaust her more than on any other day before. Being close to Sansa and _not being close_ to her, after those painstakingly intense moments of their morning, had fed on her strength.

Only then she’d assumed that the same delicious torment would await her the next day, and the day after.

Margaery longed to return the question, but the tense way Sansa looked at her was enough, and she did not require her to verbalize it, assumed she could not stand it.

“I can see how that would be an aggravation. The Maester, however, seems confident that all will resolve in some days’ time,” Sansa said.

Margaery could not identify if she believed the words, if the Maester had convinced her that the situation was insignificant, or if she only was keen to shed positivity for her sake.

“Yes he is,” Margaery returned and forced a positive voice. “And after all he is the expert.”

She could not bring herself to discuss her earlier conclusions of why he had not achieved to disarray her concerns. For one because that thinking would not do her any good and because she understood that the repercussions of not believing him where more than either of them could endure.  

“How did the rest of your day go?” Margaery inquired, eager for a topic that would bring her thoughts out of these four walls, elsewhere but her own situation.

“Moderately successful,” Sansa answered vaguely.

“The look on your face indicates otherwise,” Margaery gathered picking up on the glare that the question had prompted.

“Just more of the same,” Sansa stated with still hesitancy to her tone. “Nothing I won’t be prepared to deal with.”

Margaery blinked, struggling to pick up whether Sansa wished to spare her of news that would unsettle her or if indeed nothing unusual had transpired.

“No significant incidents then?” Margaery probed on.

“Nothing that I’d consider of significant interest to you.”

“A sack of wheat dropping over would be of interest to me,” Margaery clarified with a dramatic sigh. “I’ve been on bedrest for half an afternoon, sleeping for most of it and I’m already bored out of my mind.”

Sansa smiled mildly as she considered for a brief point, having caught on to her craving for any kind of information outside of these four walls. Anything that would divert her thoughts from where they wanted to lead her.

“The process in the glass gardens is as I anticipated it would be. The grounds man made best use of all the vacant space within the vegetable beds and the fresh sprouts of pumpkins and carrots are already breaking through.” Her fingers played with the abandoned quill. “The guest house is not nearly where I would want it to be though. Not even half the beds have been batched up with fresh mattresses, and the steward looked concerned that the clamminess of the chambers would have the ones we did set up rot, should we have not set a fire in there day and night to get rid of the cold humidity in the air. Which I’m reluctant to do, because we should we should struggle to not waste any firewood.”

“Have you settled eventually where you want them to set the dragon queen’s quarter up?”

It had been a concise exchange this morning, Arya and Sansa had debated whether the guest house would be acceptable.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “It will need to be within the keep. We can’t risk provoking her hours within her arrival.”

“Is it the display of obeisance her or her contiguity what displeases you in that?” Margaery inquired.

Sansa exhaled, her fingers stiffening around the quill so much her knuckles turned white. “The proposition turned up that if we declare her as our queen, I should offer my chambers to her.”

It was not uncommon to offer the best chamber of a castle to such highborn guests, Margaery knew. A form of honouring them, of establishing they had the highest comfort possible. Alone that could not be entirely enforced here, because Sansa had more or less been compelled into an alliance with the queen she had never met.

“You said you wished to keep the displays of honouring her to a minimal,” Margaery pointed out. “But you are regarding it now?”

“I don’t wish to create tension where it is not needed,” Sansa came around. “It is only a chamber.”

Only it wasn’t. And by the look on Sansa’s face she knew that.

Margaery was in any other circumstance not keen to hold back her judgement in a matter Sansa brought to her, only observed she had to in this situation. This was not her house, her home or her pledge to pass. She could not be the one to encourage Sansa’s way of thinking in either direction, in a delicate query like this one. Nevertheless saw Sansa’s perplexity and recognized a bid of advice would not be unwanted.

“Perhaps wait until her meet her,” she proposed. “Then the judgement will be simpler to make. You could have all set up so that the arrangement of changing the chambers could pass rather quick if needed.”

Examining the recommendation Sansa nodded at last. “A very diplomatic solution.”

“Who would have supposed that I’d ever reach a position where I am the voice of reason,” Margaery dallied, as she readjusted her position, nudging her arm further beneath her head. “I suppose my Grandmother would be terribly disappointed with me.”

Sansa smiled faintly. “I remember her so incredibly proud of you, I don’t consider there was anything you could have done to diminish that.”

There was a time when Margaery had been so confident of that too.

It was one of the few things she could tell Sansa outright, but purely for the circumstance that Daenerys Targaryen was one of the last persons to be an ally to her grandmother, she looked forward to meeting her. Her grandmother and how she had taken the news of her assumed death, had tormented her already when she had been nothing further than a bloody bulk, more dead than alive. The prospect of getting back to her, of being held in her arms again was what had strengthened her will to live. The word of her death, barely out of King’s Landing, scarcely healed, had shattered her.

“Where did your mind just go?” Sansa urged with earnest, attentive eyes.

“Recalling the several occasions in the past months where she would have scolded me as foolish.”

For the second time today, a knock on the door interrupted them, solely this time around felt a perceiving of relief, because it kept Sansa from digging any further on the subject.

Seeing Arya Stark appearing in the door surprised Margaery, the tray in her hands stunned her.

“I do not want to impose,” Arya declared, as she strode into the chamber and put the tray containing a plate with cheese and bread, along with a carafe of mulled wine down on the table where Sansa sat. She looked first at her sister. “I know that you have eaten little all day.” Thus she more or less dragged her eyes towards Margaery. For once her expression was neutral, lacking the expected mild resentment, but indicated something like cautious regard. “And I estimated you would be hungry as well.”

Margaery nodded offering a tentative smile. “That is very considerate. Thank you.”

Sansa’s expression was as tender as Margaery had ever seen her address her sister. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Arya shrugged.

To Sansa it was a whole bunch more than nothing.

Margaery wondered what prompted this shift of attitude. No, it was further than just a change in behaviour, it was Arya Stark doing a task she could have easily passed to a servant.

Was it only consideration for her sister that brought this on? A reaction to Sansa’s initial reception to the disclosure of the complexities in her condition, the one that Margaery had felt lucky now to have been spared.

Arya disappeared from the room as fast as she had turned up a minute before and Margaery searched Sansa face, which yet carried the slightest hint of a grateful smile.

“That was a nice gesture,” Margaery noted.

“It was,” Sansa agreed.

“Are we confident that was your sister?”

Making a joke was an immense deal simpler than what passed through her mind. How upset was Sansa beneath that mild concerned look? Had the Maester them told more than he had told her? Was her situation more hopeless than he had let on?

Sansa chuckled quietly. “Though hard to believe, I’m positive it was.”

Margaery knew it should have soothed her, but it provoked a good measure of anxiety. “Not very typical of her, you must agree?”

For a moment Sansa hesitated, then with a pensive expression she moved to her feet and cleared the table by setting her writing aside. “I might have had a conversation with her,” she relented as she filled two cups with steaming hot wine.

“About?”

Sansa’s eyes darted to her only after she’d put the carafe back on the table. “You,” she declared, as if that had to be clear.

With raised eyebrows Margaery took her in. This woman never failed to astonish her. No occurrences that would be of interest to her, she’d said. Talking to Arya about her held a lot of interest for Margaery.

“And you considered telling me about carrots and pumpkins in the gardens was more interesting than this?”

Sansa hesitated. “We discussed nothing you would not know yet.”

Shaking her head a little, Margaery smiled. It was a particular discussion then. One that perhaps held facts that Sansa did not wish to reveal to her in passing. Or did she believe she required to preserve her from whatever views and assumptions Arya held about her?

Either way, it left Margaery curious. Still she resolved not to force on it, should Sansa not provide any further information on her own.

As she moved the blankets off her legs, the alike still rather warm air of the room appeared refreshing. She hoisted her legs off the blankets beneath them, rejoicing of lastly making it out of this uncomfortable position she had been forced into all afternoon.

Only once her legs swung over the side of the bed she caught Sansa’s stern look.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Margaery blinked at the firmness of her words, for a note altogether incomprehensible to what prompted it, shifted herself well forward until her feet arrived at the cold floor

“To sit at the table,” in the moment she declared it, she could read on Sansa’s face that she considered this out of the question. She stood to her right, towering over her immovable, seemingly ready to force her back if necessary.

Defiance rose in Margaery’s chest. “I’m going to sit at the table to eat,” she insisted decisively.

“The Maester said to keep you off your feet whenever feasible,” Sansa shot back, yet a rigorous quality to her voice. “For eating this looks extremely feasible.”  

“He said to avoid physical strain,” she mended. “I do not think taking two steps to the table and sitting for a short period count as that. I cannot very well eat lying down. Unless you wish to spoon feed me.”

Just as she pursued to rise to her feet she felt Sansa put a restraining hand to her shoulder, which prompted Margaery to glare up at her with demanding eyes.

“I’m not eating in bed like an invalid,” she pressed with a glance to the hand holding her back. “If I recall, your bodily vitality was not the strongest previously, I’m confident I could overpower you if required.”

“That has become a lot better since this morning,” Sansa determined unimpressed, her grip tightening.

It was ludicrous. It was frustrating. It was… delightful.

The silent staring match they encountered each other in was a lot more enjoyable than it ought to be, given the circumstances. They had been so wonderfully considerate with each other in the previous week, so bloody pleasant, in their progress of reconstructing their friendship ever so gradually. Defying and challenging each other was something she had missed in that, something she appreciated so incredibly in being around Sansa. That fire in Sansa’s eyes when she wanted to get her way, was so sure that she was right about something.

Ultimately though, no matter how delightful this challenging each other was, Margaery was set to get her way here.

Only perhaps demanding, sulking and stomping her foot like a spiteful child was not the way to achieve that. That would get her nowhere. And despite her earlier comment she wasn’t keen to test Sansa’s strength.

Instead, she altered her tactic, doing what she played best as she breathed a light laugh, tipped her head and blinked up at Sansa.

“I’m sorry if I’m being persistent. I do not aspire to appear ungrateful, as I do appreciate your consideration, Sansa,” Margaery relented smoothly.

She planted a hand on the one holding her back, letting her thumb ghost three times over the back of Sansa’s, as her eyes batted up at her. “I recognize you merely want my best, I do. But in that my sanity should also signify, don’t you think? I certainly I will go mad if I remain in this bed every hour of the day.” Her eyes were appealing in the sweetest form, her smile tender. “Please?”

Sansa’s look sat on her carefully, had surrendered most of the determination from before, letting Margaery assume that it did not require much more to have her convinced.

Her face displayed pure innocence, as she gently peeled the hand over her shoulder and drew a solid hold of it.  

“Perhaps leading me to the table will soothe your mind?” She offered playfully, tightening her hold on Sansa’s fingers.

Sansa’s eyes dipped to their joined hands, and she clutched on securely, before ever so slowly moving back to look at Margaery. The tears that glistened in them did not merely catch Margaery by surprise, but likewise took her breath away and wiped the winning smile off her face.

Taking a collecting breath, Sansa threw a shaky apologetic smile.

“I apologize if I appeared patronizing,” she uttered quietly as if she did not count on her voice. “I can see where you are coming from. Relying on the help of others is not simple.”

Sansa’s eyes blinked hastily like she wanted to deter tears.

“I get it because I would not act entirely different I presume.”

Her voice wavered and Margaery felt an all too familiar throb in her breast. Still holding on to her hand, Sansa sunk onto the bed next to her, her eyes drawn to the floor.  

“This morning when I could not even dress myself… it felt humiliating.“

Margaery had understood that, and had cherished that Sansa had sent for her despite that, because it had showed her that despite her previous breach of trust, Sansa still put more trust in her than anybody else.

Now Sansa was asking her to return that trust, and Margaery understood only then how hard it truly was.

„I’m not trying to tell you what to do or determine what is best for you. I’m not,” Sansa declared firmly, finding her eyes again. “I just want - I _need_ you, to be all right. And there seems to be so little that I can actively do to assure that.”

The overconfidence that she had felt merely a moment ago was cleared from her conscious as they sat there together. Sansa still looked at her with hazy eyes that urged her to be sensible, and Margaery had no choice but to wonder… Had her stubbornness prevailed her common sense here? Sansa made a valid point, there was remarkably little she could do to shape a favourable result here. It was reasonable after all, in her condition she should not take any avoidable risks.

Why was she acting so irrational and trying to act against the Maester’s advice? Was it a sheer grasp of personal defiance? A yearning to not be in this position in the first place? Trying to persuade herself that it was all not as dreadful as it seemed? Perhaps trying to convince Sansa of that?

That thought of Sansa seeing her so weak and helpless was not something she loved, she could hardly endure Sansa’s pained eyes on her.

Only it was in her own hands to ease that pain wasn’t it? Had her vow not been to not cause Sansa anymore pain?

If staying off her feet would achieve easing her mind, diminish the concern she felt, forgetting her pride and her keenness to get her way seemed like a modest sacrifice to accomplish that.

“I loathe that what you are saying is so reasonable,” Margaery breathed. No matter how strong the intention to lessen Sansa’s concern, yielding and accepting defeat was not something that came easy to her.

Sansa returned the smallest smile. “I get that,” Sansa assured, her thumb brushing over Margaery’s knuckles.

“I presume I could sit in bed for eating?” Margaery suggested hesitantly.

Sansa’s smile widened with those words. “It does sound like a proper compromise.”

Relieved to have the blurry look fade from Sansa’s face, Margaery pushed herself back into bed to lean against the headboard, drawing a thin sheet over her legs, all while Sansa gathered the tray of food and brought it down into her lap.

She remained thereafter for longer than needed, her eyes met Margaery's, her hands still on the handle of the tray, her face only inches away.

By default, in a pure instinct, Margaery’s eyes drew to her lips, could accomplish nothing else in this closeness. She longed for her so genuinely. For her warmth, for her comfort. It had been so long since the last time they kissed, appeared like a lifetime ago; something she hardly remembered still and yet could sense in her heart as if it had just happened.

Throughout their entire morning this had been so very conscious in herself. 

From the time she had felt Sansa’s intake of breath after the legitimate accident that her fingertip brushed over soft skin after she‘d closed her dress. Just then it would have been so plain to let her fingertips explore further, draw up the elegant line of her neck until she’d arrive at her hair line, slide it down the side, press a kiss to it, taste her skin, meet her decline into her touch and lips, pull her firmly back into herself. It had taken every portion of discipline to settle her hands on Sansa’s shoulders instead.

When she had thereafter braided Sansa’s hair, all she had thought about was the last time she had done so, when she had abandoned the work of her fingers multiple times to meet her lips instead.

And thus that bloody belt… adjusting that had been nothing short of torment. Her hands all to adjacent to places she yearned to touch. The sense of Sansa’s warm breath on her cheek as she worked. That brief moment afterwards when, had it not been for Arya Stark’s appearance, she would have given up what was left of her self control, leapt in and urged her lips against Sansa’s.

The perceiving of Sansa‘s proximity had enwrapped her in every one of those points. It had been intoxicating, and was now once again.

“Thank you for being so reasonable for my sake, I do appreciate your consideration,” Sansa’s speech was soft as a feather as she breathed the words; with them there was a slight shift in Sansa’s expression. Suddenly the small smile that lingered on her lips was no longer tearful or radiating soft relief as before, more… triumphant.

She pulled back and Margaery’s could only still stare at her, her mouth slightly agape, thoroughly dumbfounded.

She had played her. And with little effort. Had twisted Margaery’s own seek to build on the affection Sansa held for her and gotten her way by turning the tables on her. She had forged false tears, and played to her own need to see Sansa smile, to not be the reason for tears.

“I don’t know whether to be impressed or appalled,” she declared with a slow shake of her head.

“Settle on outsmarted then,” Sansa casually dropped back into her chair, her tone a lot closer to the quality it had held at the beginning of this discussion.

Neither feeling sat well with Margaery, but either was a load better than the devastation that still soared in the back of her mind, and so she settled on admiration for now.

Sansa prepared a plate of her own and commenced cutting up a slice of bread, practically as a side note she looked up at Margaery. She seemed entirely too pleased with herself. “First thing tomorrow, we are clarifying the extent of the bedrest Wolkan wants you to have.”

…and on gratefulness to have Sansa in her life, taking care of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to keep the angst at bay here, so hopefully it was not quite as bad as some of you predicted. We'll save the major angst for the next chapter! ;)
> 
> Eager to hear each and everyone of your thought of course! 
> 
> A lovely week to all of you :)


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the previous chapters were all on the shorter side and I hope this will make up for it...   
> That being said: I am so excited to finally post this! I had different version, different POVs of this chapter sitting on my computer for almost a year now and I have to say that I'm quite happy with how it turned out. Probably my personal favorite so far.   
> It is angst heavy, though I think in still a managable way, or so I hope.

With a rapid and swift pull Sansa was back on her horse, her heels pressing into the mare’s body urging it on to move. She was eager–impatient–to return to Winterfell. Now she had seen what she came to see, had assured herself that all was as it should be, had completed her task, she was resolved not to waste another minute.

For the previous weeks, she had put off the inspection of the sawmill again and again. First, they had not completed the repairs yet, then all that had developed with Littlefinger had moved her incapable to leave the walls of Winterfell, as had subsequently on the arrangements for Jon and the Dragon Queen. 

That was more or less cut and dried for a couple of days now, and yet she yet had been hesitant to ride all the way out to the Wolfs Wood, because she had realized the trip there would demand a full day away from Winterfell, from the early hours of dawn until late into the evening.

Sansa was not someone who forwent her obligations, assuredly not someone who procrastinated. Only ever Margaery had provoked a genuine unwillingness in seeing through with something as she required to. More than once she had led her to question priorities that looked set in stone on any other day.

Given Margaery’s present condition, this went now more than usually.

For roughly two weeks, Margaery had been on bedrest and Sansa had spent every minute she could clear in her day on her bedside. She ate her meals there, and worked out her correspondence so frequently on the small table that she did not even trouble to remove it at the end of the day. Every night she sat with her into the early hours of the next day, spoke about her day then, sometimes read to her, other times they played dice or cards.

It was not much that she could do, but she allowed nothing unattempt to keep Margaery from slipping into the lethargy she knew her so terribly close at the edge of.

Margaery was not great at being constrained to bed. Lacked the patience for it. It was plainly evident that being ordered to remain in bed day in and out weighed on her. In the initial days there had been a distinct restlessness to her still, a clear opposition to accept her situation. For every meal they found themselves seized in the same discussion whether it was harmless for Margaery to leave the bed. So often that Sansa had felt she had used her forged tears on her all too soon.

The lengths Margaery had led to occupy her thoughts had been excessive. A book that Sansa brought her barely lasted for more than a day before she’d finished it. She knitted, sewed, and embroidered so much, at times her bed chamber held a precise resemblance to the seamstress room. Other occasions, she had Sansa’s correspondence spread all over her bed, familiarising herself with all the details that kept Sansa busy.

In the last days that spirit and agitation had ceased more and more.

A bunch of times when Sansa came to her, she found Margaery sleeping through large parts of the day, the pile of books on her night table grew more dusty, she left her craftwork unfinished in the frame after two or three stitches. She did not argue with Sansa anymore, but quietly tolerated the tray with food placed over her lap.

Every morning before breakfast the Maester was there to examine her, and every morning for two weeks the same devastating statement. No change, not even a trace. Sansa could see Margaery’s spirit leaving her more each time.

She comprehended that it grew increasingly harder for her to keep her thoughts away from letting them circle around the overshadowing threat of a birth that could arrive before the child had turned.

It was an agonizing waiting game. Sansa did her best to keep on a brave face for Margaery, did her best to keep her occupied and entertained, but she was coming to the limits of her own endurance. They were on a clock and time was running out.

“The work that was done here is very impressive.” Arya led her own horse in a moderate trot aside Sansa’s. “I recall this as only ruins we used to play in when we were children.”

“I believe it will pass the supply with fire wood a lot smoother, having it processed right here.”

Firewood would be as significant as bread and butter in the winter and the dangers they were facing, as well as the thousands of men riding north. The structure was certainly to her satisfaction. The builder had not promised too much when he’d first presented the proposals to her. An ox-drawn construction was propelling the sawmill and conducted the work a load more efficiently, provided the lumbers more time to handle the wood and pile it up on carts to be taken back to Winterfell.

“If you want, we could make a small detour to the west, there is a narrow clearing in the woods there. This way we would not require to skip your training session today,” Arya suggested. “I think a discipline on unsteady ground will serve you useful.”

“I do not think showing my mediocre capacities with the blade will do very effectively with keeping up the men’s respect,” Sansa declared with a small glance to the soldiers riding in some distance behind them.

She was prudent not to let anyone witness their trainings. Not merely would that raise questions to the why, but furthermore her general pride forbade her from allowing it. She had not supposed that she would shine at swinging a sword, maybe she had not predicted to be as poor as she had turned out to be. Not to imagine what anyone would say if they had seen her fail so miserably. She had understood that Lyanna Mormont had established exceptional improvement in her own training. A girl half her age. What message would it send if the Lady of Winterfell would show to be really poor at something a child mastered without problems?

“We could send them back ahead of us,” Arya shrugged. “We don’t require them to defend us.”

Sansa still shook her head, alike if she carried no doubt in her sister’s words. When Arya had declared that she would come along, the thought to forgo bringing soldiers at all had been in her mind.

“Another time,” Sansa said. “I would prefer to catch as much daylight as feasible on our path back.”

The manner in which Arya did not respond right away told Sansa to prepare herself for what came next. Her sister did not disappoint.

“You mean you would like to be back on childbearing watch as quickly as possible,” Arya said with a roll of her eyes. “I’m confident she can waive your nursing for a day.”

“Arya,” Sansa addressed her sister with a stern look. “You said you’d make an effort with her.”

It was not the first time Arya had observed on the time she spent with Margaery. Sansa had lately often excused herself and while in the beginning Arya had offered her some regard, now, her remarks became more and more biting.

„I said no such thing,” Arya clarified. “Either way, it’s you I’m upset with and the way everything else loses importance to you because of Lady Tyrell.”

Sansa even understood her sister’s discontent to some degree. Spending every available minute with Margaery had granted her a lot less time to spend with her siblings, and that in a time when they were only coming closer again was not something she liked. It was not that Sansa did not feel bad about it, but her priorities in this were very clear.

“I know I’ve been neglecting spending time with you and Bran, but I plead you to see the bigger picture here. Other than her, both of you are doing well, and will, with or without me.”

_I’m fairly certain I’m not threatened to lose either of you._

She could not utter that conclusion, could hardly tolerate it, because all that kept herself from not crying herself to sleep at night was the slight hope it would still all work out that Margaery would give birth without significant troubles.

“It’s understandable that her wellbeing concerns you,” Arya relented. “But I think in all, that you require someone to be concerned for you too.”

The words truly surprised Sansa. That was… outright sweet of her; if unnecessary.

“I appreciate the consideration, alike if it is not needed.”

“I believe it is,” Arya said. “You sit by her bedside every minute you are not working. You hardly sleep, you eat like a baby bird and your face looks a bit narrower every morning.”

They made it out of the forests, in front of them the wide and magnificent view of the North.

She would have cherished to ride here with Margaery, to show her this gorgeous sight. Had planned to do so before she had learned of her pregnancy. Then she had figured they’d have a chance to do so after the child was born. Now, her aspirations were trimmed to hoping was that there would be a child born, and an after.

“Jon will be back in a couple of days. The workload will cease then and that will give me room to breathe.”

“To sit by her side all day and night then and worry about her?” Arya challenged.

“I worry whether I’m by her side or all the way out here.” With those words, she spurred her horse and left Arya to look after her for a short stage, before she followed suit and moved her horse along.

They passed through the Hunter’s Gate a solid hour after the last rays of sun had faded from the sky, had to tame their horses for the last part, anything else would have been unsafe in only the light of flares.

She and Arya had spoken little through the remains of their way back, now when Sansa unmounted her horse, Arya was right by her side taking the leash from her.

“I’ll see to it that they are taken care of,” she told her. “You run along and do what you need to do.”

Sansa showed her sister a small thankful smile. Even if Arya did not care a great deal for Margery, she cared for her, she had not been wrong, it did feel comforting to know that someone was watching out for her as well.

The steps that brought her to Margaery’s chamber were quick, and on the stairs so hurried that she almost stumbled on her own dress twice. It was not just apprehension that provoked this rush, not exclusively. She had bid her goodbyes to her in the early morning hours, before the sun had dawned. Had left a still half asleep Margaery with the appeal not to get herself in trouble while she was away.

Throughout today she had missed her, commonly did when she was not around. Despite the complicated and distressed circumstances, she still loved to spend time with her. Tonight she longed to tell her of the success the sawmill turned out to be, discovered she could not wait for that small proud smile that would crop up on Margaery’s lips doubtlessly.

The giddy excitement that thought brought along was halted abruptly when a male voice answered to her knock.

With hesitation she reached for the latch. When she pushed the door open, the first thing she noticed was the almost unbearable warmth that rushed towards her blended with a smell of scented oils. The next was the vacant bed, then Maester Wolkan who worked on the table grounding something in a mortar and the maid who put a log onto a flaring fire in the fireplace.

Lastly, her eyes settled on Margaery who up to her collar in a steaming bath, only her arms supporting herself on the edge, her eyes closed, her hair pinned up and an expression that implied on a first glance that she was in profound concentration.

“What is going on?” she asked with an awful lump in her throat.

“Turns out you were right,” she declared, with a brightness in her tone that did not fit her expression or the tense way her hands were curled around the rim of the tub. “You can’t leave me out of your sight without me doing something stupid.”

“The birth pains appeared shortly before noon today,” the Maester explained to her, rubbing remains of dried up herbs off his palms as he turned to her, showing her a brief serious expression. She only held his look for a note before her eyes flitted to Margaery was looking at her.

“And the child?” Sansa’s speech was only about a whisper, because she knew already.

The atmosphere in the chamber was too tense, the Maester’s expression too serious, the couple of words Margaery had delivered too pressed in appearing light.

“The stubborn brat refuses to budge,” Margaery breathed out and made a face. “A typical Tyrell after all it seems.”

Sansa’s heart sank.

“I‘m confident that the contractions of the womb will move the child into the correct position at last,” Wolkan pointed out, merely the reassurance his words were supposed to give did not fully make it into his voice. “She’s moving ahead slowly either way.”

“You say that as if it is a positive thing,” Margaery huffed.

She looked tired already, Sansa recognized. And a good portion further weakened than she had ever seen her. The quippy remarks, this forced casual tone was a mechanism not to go mad with fear.

“And the bath will serve with that as well?”

“That was more a compromise to keep the Lady off her feet,” he described, sending an exasperated glance Margaery’s way. “It helps with the pain.”

Oh gods, she was in pain.

Pain that would alone grow worse as she moved along.

Sansa withstood her instinct to bring a hand on her chest to steady her pounding heart, did not grant the fear climbing to it. If Margaery could put on a feigned brave smile, she owed her at least that.

Nothing was lost yet. Yes, the birth had started, but if the Maester claimed there was yet a chance for the child to turn she’d hang onto that belief with every filament of her being.

“Does it help?” Sansa asked.

“It does,” Margaery confirmed. “As much I expect anything would.”

Then suddenly there was something that could have been misread as annoyance to span her face, before her eyes closed, she pressed her lips together and her knuckles turned white as they clutched the rim of the tub. For a moment Sansa did not grasp what was going on, stood there frozen as she followed and only slowly realized that it was a wave of pain that built in Margaery. Sansa watched the slow intake of breath and the way she held her breath throughout the pain that came over her, and ceased breathing herself for that instant as well, until Margaery released it then in a sound exhale. For the moment thereafter Margaery leaned back into the tub and gradually the rhythm of her breathing came back to normal.

That was one contraction. One out of many she’d already had, and countless that would follow throughout the night, and the short moment of seeing Margaery in pain was already more than Sansa thought she could take.

The _apologetic_ look that Margaery gave her, once she had attained command over herself, pulled Sansa from her stupor finally. Her feet had been fastened to the same spot, but now she moved in wide strides into the chamber, ridding herself of her cloak to bear with the hellish heat that the fire had created.

Margaery did not have to be distressed here, on top of being in pain she should not have to trouble what her agony did to Sansa. That was too much. Her own feeling could take the seat in the back of her mind. What was going on here right now was not about her and if she was comfortable with it.

Sansa dropped down on the foot end of the bed, merely two feet away from where Margaery sat in the tub.

“I reckon my plan to make it to bed early tonight is out of the window,” she said as she almost casually leaned back onto her hands.

“You don’t have to stay here with me,” Margaery interjected immediately, her voice still a portion on the shaky side, still recovering. “You should get some sleep. I would if I could.”

Sansa shook her head, an expression on her face that represented just how outrageous the proposal was. “Like I’d be able to catch even a minute of sleep.”

Margaery gave another one of those apologetic smiles, as if she loathed that she was inconveniencing her. Sansa reached out for the hand that lay on the edge of the tub and gave wet fingers that were tangling with her own a steady grip. So tightly as if she could make up for all the times she had deprived herself from reaching out in the last weeks.

“Don’t worry about me, I would not choose to be anywhere else right now.”

How could she spend these moments, those what could be Margaery’s last hours, anywhere else?

She shook the thought off as rapidly as it had crept up on her and closed her second hand around the one holding Margaery’s.

This would not be their last night. It could not be. She wouldn’t allow it. Would move heaven and earth before she let it be that, or alike allowed anything that felt remotely like it between them.

“You look tired,” Margaery pointed out, and Sansa swallowed returning the same. “The ride to the Wolfs Wood was good? You didn’t come upon bad weather?”

“It was splendid,” Sansa recounted. “Even a bit of sun in parts.”

She had almost cursed this morning when she’d felt the relatively mild air, caught the sunlight that had broken through the mists, because poor weather would have permitted her an excuse not to go. She should have listened to her instinct and remained in Winterfell, she thought now. But would that have made a difference? Nothing to prevent this, that much was sure. At least this way it had permitted her a couple of hours delay in having this anxiety wrap around her whole existence now.

“And the improvement of the sawmill?”

“It was just as I hoped,” Sansa stated. “I can’t wait to show you, I expect it will impress you.”

“Doubtless,” Margaery smiled, the mention of grief did just not want to leave her face. That uncertainty if she’d have the chance.

They sat in silence and Sansa searched in her mind for something to say, a different topic. Usually with Margaery she never had to that, the exchange always passed. It was not just the Maester’s presence still that altered that, Sansa knew. Margaery had to direct her strength on what the birth took and would yet take out of her, she could not waste it on light conversation.

 “Have you eaten something?” She shifted to the Maester. “Is she allowed to eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” Margaery said, before the Maester could respond. “I do not expect I could hold anything down through the length of a contraction.” Soft brown eyes studied Sansa’s face. “But you should eat, if I know you your last meal was breakfast.”

Sansa felt her own stomach churning at the prospect of food, returned the sentiment of most likely not being able to keep anything down, even when the fresh air had given her a burning appetite merely an hour ago.

“We had lunch packed.”

Margaery quipped an eyebrow, “Which you ate?”

Caught in her half truth Sansa smiled and her hand caressed Margaery’s. “I’ll make you a trade. I’ll have a wine with egg yolk if you will give it a try.”

Margaery looked amused for a tiny instant. “I don’t know who taught you to guilt people into getting your way, but I don’t appreciate it.”

As this was as close to a positive return she would receive from Margaery in this means, Sansa offered her a slight smirk and looked to the maid who was bringing a warming pan beneath the sheets of the bed. “Can you arrange for that, please?”

When the girl had withdrawn the chamber, Sansa turned over to the Maester, who was leaning over the table, studying the recipe for whatever potion he was producing. Again her eyes landed on Margaery who’d leaned back in the tub, with her eyes closed, only her hand yet clasping on to Sansa’s.

“Perhaps it would be best for you to get some rest,” she told the man.

Wolkan looked up to her in obvious objection.

“You suggested it yourself, things are running along slowly,” Sansa went on. “We will need you more than all of us to be at your sufficient concentration and capability tonight. I can send for you when it is needed.”

He resolved not offering much of a debate, too sensible her reasons, too determined her tone. Perhaps he was likewise glad to leave the room for a while, Sansa considered when the door closed behind him. He knew more than he let on, and she could not shake the sense it relieved him not to have to radiate certainty and assurance for a while.

“Have I ever told you I greatly appreciate this particular authority you carry so effortlessly?”

Sansa lifted an eyebrow at the precise quality in Margaery’s tone. It was one she had heard before merely in perfectly different situations, which nearly passed it ludicrous now, but only just. That specific emotion in her tone she could never just shake off. Only it irritated her that Margaery had chosen this moment to bring it forward again when for the previous days and weeks she had been so profoundly cautious to cross that boundary between them.

She promised to give us time, Sansa thought, only she thinks she’s running out of it.

Again Sansa cleared herself of that thought as hurriedly as she could, returned Margaery’s smile instead. She used the moment of their gained privacy to sweep her fingertips over the back of Margaery’s hand, halfway up her forearm. It was the first time she saw so much of her skin exposed. So much of the true extent of her scars.

She’d overcome so much, survived something she was not supposed to survive. The same would go for tonight.

“It yet occasionally startles me when people indeed follow my orders,” she declared, her eyes focused on what her fingers where doing, again she yanked them away and to Margaery’s face. “How are you feeling?”

Margaery gave a slight shrug. “It’s bearable still. Surprisingly so. The bath really helps with the pain.”

That was not what she had meant.

“I’ve been too engrossed with the pain, too much to consider anything else,” she added then.

“It will all work out,” Sansa said astonished with the confidence her words carried, far more than she felt. “Tomorrow at this hour you’ll be one of those unbearable mothers who’s pressuring people into telling them how precious their babe is.”

Margaery gave a half-convinced smirk. “There will be no pressuring needed. Or do you have any doubts that my child will be most adorable?”

Sansa did not think she would care any longer if it would slip from her looking exactly like Cersei. As long as it was born and Margaery was safe, Sansa was assured that it would be the most beautiful child she’d ever seen.

“The Gods help us you are already there,” Sansa joked instead.

When the hand in her own loosened and drew back, Sansa felt irritation for a small flash, then she saw the way Margaery closed her eyes and that deep frown showed on her forehead, how fingers tightened around the rim of the tub again.

With little contemplating she peeled the hand she’d been holding off the wood and took it into her own. In the meagre encouragement she could provide her in this, she was eager to contribute as much as conceivable.

She sat it out steadily, let Margaery grip onto her as strongly as she required, again held her own breath until Margaery’s returned to an ordinary regularity.

Three more waves of pain overcame Margaery until the maid turned up with the wine and yolk, and later another six until she had warily emptied a third of the cup and put it down.

“That’s all I can handle, I’m frightened,” she declared and pushed the board that had been placed over the tub away.

“It’s more than I expected you’d drink,” Sansa relented and placed her own empty cup next to Margaery’s. Before leaning back, she let her fingers dip into the water, felt that it had lost most of its rich warmth. “This is growing awfully brisk, I think it’s enough for now.”

“Only a while longer,” Margaery pleaded scantily.

“We can have a new one poured later,” Sansa assured and moved to her feet to gather one of the large towels that had been draped by the fire. “Your skin is already wrinkly, best you take a break.”

Sansa stayed next to the tub and gave Margaery an expectant look that gave no room for backtalk. She held the towel up high enough to offer Margaery sufficient privacy, lined her eyes on a spot on the wall as soon as Margaery leaned forward in the water and moved to push herself up on the edge of the bathtub.

Water spilled over the side as Margaery came to a stand in the tub, she remained there for the length of a breath when Sansa felt the pressure of an arm on her shoulder. At first she thought Margaery was seeking support in her stability in getting out of the tub, alone when she heard the groan of discomfort she realized that a fresh contraction had struck her.

In instinct Sansa took a step closer wrapped the towel she’d been holding up around Margaery’s trembling form, while Margaery’s other arm came up around her waist and her head landed on her shoulder as she futilely sought to breathe through the pain.

It went on for longer than any of those she had witnessed before, so long she reflected if she’d not been too quick in urging her to get out of the bath, and in sending the Maester away.

Margaery had a vice grip on her, she was not acknowledging the suggestion to sit back down neither to the appeal to get out of the tub, just breathed against her shoulder. It left Sansa to not much more than hold her and brush fingers through her hair as she whispered words of soft comfort that could not provide any.

A small eternity passed until Margaery gradually relaxed in her arms and her breathing returned to normal. Even thus she did not move, it seemed to Sansa like she was the sole thing holding her upright just then.

“Come on, now,” Sansa prompted gently. “Let’s get you out of there.”

With only very unsteady legs Margaery managed to plant one foot after the other on the fur in front of the tub, her hold on Sansa still resolute, her breathing still laboured. Only then she pulled the tiniest bit back and looked up at Sansa with a weakened smile.

“Are you all right?” Sansa asked attentively.

Margaery sighed and let her forehead drop back against Sansa’s shoulder. “Disenchanted. I imagined the first moment I’d be in your arms wearing this little a whole lot different.”

Sansa chuckled at the attempt of a joke and smoothed a strand of hair behind Margaery’s ear. “You must be better if your mind is back to such eloquent thoughts.”

She brought her the few steps over to the bed and let her sit down on the edge, drawing the sheets backwards over her shoulders and let a yet not fully recovered Margaery lean against her side as she stayed next to her, her hand planted on Margaery’s shoulder as she drew her into herself.

That had been scary, and what was even worse was that this was still purely the beginning. The night would bring countless more points just like this one and every time she’d be unable to accomplish anything to help her, to make the pain or the fear better.

It took a while until Margaery had redeemed abundant energy to put a nightgown and a warm robe over herself. The trembling that Sansa could not be certain if it developed from the chill after the bath or from the strain, had not broken off yet.

“Would you prefer to lie down?”

Margaery shook her head. “All but that,” she answered and signalled towards her fur-lined slippers. “I need to walk.”

Sansa stared at her like she had lost her mind, but Margaery’s unwavering eyes taught her that this was not up for debate, so she helped her set the slippers on her feet and held out her hand for her to lead her a few steps ahead.

“You should pace your strength.” She perceived better than to press Margaery into anything she that she did not feel up to but had to at least to pass this judgment.

“Your discontent is noted,” Margaery granted a narrow affectionate smile. “And likewise ignored.”

They made it solely the couple of steps to the fireplace until the next contraction blossomed and Margaery gripped onto the mantelpiece with one hand, the other one wrapping around Sansa’s, quietly groaning in anguish.

When it was over, she rested her forehead against her hand on the mantelpiece.

“Tell me something,” Margaery pleaded of Sansa.

Sansa blinked in irritation. “Tell you what?”

“I don’t care. Anything. Anything to distract me,” Margaery said with a thin smile and forced herself into an upright position, her feet already moving again even when the last of the pain had not disappeared from her.

The whole situation overwhelmed Sansa and that merely heightened the longer she spent in it, ultimately she gave her strongest in not letting it show. Instead she calmly and securely held Margaery’s hand as she took steps that gained more solidness and spoke about the first thing that appeared to her mind.

“You would not believe the number of singers that have appeared in Winterfell within the last couple of days.”

Margaery did not answer. This was not supposed to be an exchange, she appeared not have the strength for it. Sansa had grasped that, as she continued talking.

“Word that the Dragon Queen will be here soon has spread and it looks like people cannot wait to give her the honour.”

Margaery gave her a short look, one that suggested she understood more, that she knew why it bothered Sansa.

“I’m not envious, let them sing ballads for her until she turns green, I don’t care.” Only she cared, a little bit. “I’m annoyed. It is more mouths we will have to bring through winter. More over most likely that kind that cannot fight,” Sansa sighed. “To make things worse, most of them seem to be just awful at their craft. Wintertown when we returned today was one huge squeaking and squawking. You should have seen the look on Arya’s face when we rode through it.”

Margaery smiled at that, but added nothing still so Sansa went on with the next best topic that came to her mind.

With their hands linked, Sansa let Margaery lead her crosswise through the chamber. They’d make short stops whenever a new wave of pain overwhelmed her and became too much to take, but always as soon as it passed, Margaery would drag herself a few steps forward again and Sansa would have another random anecdote ready. They continued on like this for what must have been a couple of hours.

Throughout that, the pain intensified and the intervals in between the contractions grew noticeably, even though still slowly, shorter. Sansa could perceive a restlessness grown within Margaery, with every pain that developed, caught the way her hands probed over her stomach.

Sansa still gave her best to radiate calmness, as it was the only thing she could offer her. She patiently and calmly followed her throughout her wanderings through the chamber, held her hand, dabbed her wet hair out of her forehead, ran her hands over her back when she almost doubled over in torment.

“The shipment of cotton we were waiting for arrived yesterday, unfortunately half of it is rotten, as they did not store it properly… half a dozen sacks we can dump into the fire, a true shame considering this cold winter.”

“When I was little I had this doll stuffed with cotton I carried everywhere,” was the first thing that Margaery said in almost an hour. She had her forearms leaned on the bed and her voice sounded unfamiliar, the words as lost in thought as if she was not even talking to Sansa. “Grandmother said she put it in my cradle when I was not much more than a day old and my chubby fingers reached for it and didn’t let go for the next years.”

She shoved herself in a standing position and remained there for a moment looking absorbed in thought.

“I have prepared nothing for the child. I stitched muster onto scarfs, pleated dresses, embroidered collars... Useless ways to pass time. Not a single piece for the child, no swaddling cloths, nothing.”

Sansa’s hands smoothed over Margaery’s upper back. She could tell that not alone her physical limits where approaching, as the time to recover grew narrower, but accepted this as a sign how she was less and less capable to mask the misery and dread she went through.

“It’s winter, it’s freezing cold and I did not consider to even knit a blanket for my child,” Margaery breathed with a shake of her head and her right hand cradled her belly.

“We have plenty furs and blankets,” Sansa comforted her. “And a fast and talented seamstress.”

Margaery did not react to what she had said, and let Sansa understand that it was not about such practical matters in the first place.

“I think it perceives how little I wanted it to begin with,“ Margaery’s voice was low, she was reluctant to admit this out loud. „That must the reason for this happening. It would rather not be born, than to a mother who hates it.”

Sansa shook her head softly, took Margaery’s hand in her own. “I don’t believe you hate it, not truly.”

“Right now I do,” Margaery declared and wiped away the lone tear that escaped her hurriedly. “I loathe it for putting me through this.“

“That is the exhaustion talking,” Sansa reasoned softly.

„I can’t do this much longer.”

Margaery’s strength, the one she had upheld for too long already was giving out, as was her courage, and that terrified Sansa. At the absence of anything else to do or answer, Sansa pulled Margaery in a plain but firm embrace, her lips landing on her temple in a gentle kiss.

When the Maester to came back and examined her, he could not bear the positive report they were so desperately wishing for. The child had not shifted on its own, and still the birth process was developing still rather gradually, but mercilessly either way.

His recommendation for Sansa to get a couple of hours of rest, where he would reside with Margaery, Sansa did not dignify with further than a terse shake of her head. She sat by her head and held her hand as the Maester’s hands were still palpating over her exposed stomach.

Margaery was back up a minute after he had finished, she sat on the edge of the bed, her stomach cradled between her hands as the next contraction already built.

“You should try to get some rest though,” Sansa suggested softly her fingers skimming over the nape of her neck, when her hands twisted into the blankets as she braced herself against the mattress, from a contraction.

The Maester was quickly to agree, as he indicated, that the actual expulsive pains would not appear until dawn and that Margaery should gather all her strength for that.

Even though the prospect of sleeping seemed impossible, Margaery did not bring up much of a fight or discussion. The Maester had already prepared a small vial with potion she wound in her hands for a moment, but still hesitant to drink it then, her eyes flitted to the Maester with an expression so serious it startled Sansa.   

“You mentioned final options earlier,” she pressed out between heavy breaths of dire discomfort. “I expect it is time you fill me in on them.”

The Maester looked uncertain. “We are not there yet, not by far. There is still time. Your womb is hardly more than halfway open.”

Margaery shook her head. “I’m in pain and I feel exhausted,” she declared coolly. “But not so much yet that it impairs my mind and judgement and I don’t know how much longer that will be the state, especially once I drink this.”

“Is there something you can do?” Sansa’s voice nearly broke as she uttered the words, a little like a prayer.

She barely dared to move, knew better than to expect a miracle, but she entrusted him and his ability, had hung on to the belief that there was something he could do. If there was, she needed to hear it.

“There is something we ought to consider,” he replied then, correcting her.

Sansa spotted the tense look on Margaery’s face and pulled her eyes away from her and back to him and when she saw the look on his, the apprehension and the remorse she perceived that it was not the miracle solution she was counting on.

 “If things keep developing the way they are and if worse comes to worst, I might be able to save the child. If it comes to it, there is a method called the Save by Servan. He was a Maester who served to the Targaryens centuries ago.” He hesitated, considered how to explain it to them. “It is described as a way to save the child by surgically extracting it from the womb.”

His words and what precisely he proposed there took a note to quite reach her consciousness. Once they did, an unknown sense of horror washed over her. He was suggesting to cut the child out of her, before they both died. Killing her, accepting her death in order to save the babe.

She shook her head so heavily that she felt dizzy. Or maybe it was the horror of the suggestion that caused her to feel dizzy.

“No,” she blurted in a rushed breath.

“Sansa.”

She ignored Margaery, shook off the hand that reached for her own and took three strides towards the Maester until she stood right in front of him.

“We are not sacrificing her,” she declared in stable, but sharp words and she felt tears raise to her eyes.

“Milady-”

“You will find a way to save her,” Sansa ordered, her eyes remained cold on him. “To save both of them, or so help me the Gods I will have your head on a spike.”

Her speech had not failed the intimation she wished to spark in him. He stared at her for a silent and long moment, seeking to determine how sincere she was. The realization that she was dead serious startled indeed herself.

Subsequently, he offered her a short bow. “I’ll gather some manuscripts that might enclose a solution I have missed so far.” He appeared not very assured, solely acting out of obligation, perhaps fear. He sounded resigned, but still he strode off to his archives.

Sansa remained there for a note, and had to lean a hand onto the table to not lose her strength, and to reclaim her composure. She was furious. His words, his verdict that this was their sole option, the only choice left to pass, wrecked her. She had to swallow several times so that the tears of fear and anger would not pass past her eyelids.

“I imagine Cersei would be proud if she overheard you just now.”

Sansa twisted around and met Margaery’s gentle eyes.

For an instant she had neglected that she was here too. That she had not only heard the Maester’s words, but also her own.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa apologized and stood in front of her, took the hand that reached out for her and offered it a squeeze. “I know should have not put it so harshly. But what he suggested was outrageous.”

“We should consider it.”

The horror that those words brought to Sansa gripped around her heart like an iron fist.

She was resentful that Wolkan had established the approach to Margaery in the first place. No matter how often she claimed to be thinking rationally, she wasn’t. She was in pain and weakened and scared. She should have never learned of this, never gotten to know about this choice, even less consider it.

Sansa shook her head frantically.

“If he expects he can save the child, perhaps-” Margaery continued gently.

“It’s out of the question,” Sansa interrupted, her head still shaking with determination.

Margaery did not get to do this. She did not get to leave her, no matter how much her strength was wavering, she would survive this. Had to.

“I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

Margaery looked at her with tired eyes and gave her hand a soft tuck indicating her to sit down next to her. Sansa complied, held onto her hand so rigidly as if she could slip away from her in that moment.

“I know you are weary,” Sansa acknowledged. “And I know you are scared and just want the pain to be over with, but this is not the way. There will be a different solution.”

Margaery took their joint hands and moved them on top of her stomach, allowed Sansa to feel gentle movement coming from her womb. The movement of the child.

“If I don’t make it, then at least he or she deserves a chance to live,” Margaery said in a firm voice.

It was strange to feel it, distressing in a form that the child was still kicking when she was in such discomfort already - and miraculous at the same time. Which was precisely why Margaery needed her to feel it, to realize that there was an already complete little person grown inside her who waited to be born, who wanted to live.

“If it comes to it promise me, you’ll have Wolkan save at least my child.”

The words shook Sansa to the core. She craved to draw back, but Margaery held her hand where it was, took her in with resolved features.

It was not Margaery who would end up choosing, Sansa understood then. This option that the Maester had given them, would come at a stage when Margaery was beyond making decisions. This impossible decision would land on her and Margaery let her know that it was all right to make it.

Sansa swallowed tears away. “No. You can’t ask that of me. I can’t do that.”

“If we both die it all has been for nothing,” Margaery returned insistently and Sansa knew she was right. Everything that Margaery had survived would be for nothing, all the pain and the strain, all the fears and concerns.

If things, the choice, had been the other way around, if it was saving Margaery’s life over that of the babe, she knew she'd take the risk in a heartbeat.  She wanted them both to live, but given the choice, the inconceivable choice, she knew whom of them she would save.

Margaery was demanding something impossible of her, and yet, maybe because of the anguish in Margaery’s eyes, Sansa found herself nodding–all while perceiving perfectly that she could never make good of this pledge.

“It won’t come to that though,” she added a moment thereafter, refusing to even contemplate the prospect of Margaery not making it, while she was still looking at her, speaking to her. “The entire thing I have to promise you is that in a couple of hours, you will have a crying babe in your arms.”

Margaery looked like the words did not sway her, like she wanted to oppose, but she did not seem to have the spirit to, and that scared Sansa more than maybe everything else.

“If the Gods mean well with us,” she breathed instead.

They would, Sansa thought. They owed her, for all they had forced her through in her young life, both of them, they owed them this. They needed to let Margaery live.

She did not tolerate a doubt in those thoughts. Even as she felt the way Margaery’s stomach hardened beneath her hand and her body bent forward in agony. The breaks in between the contractions were becoming shorter and shorter, and she could tell that it was hardly enough anymore for Margaery to recover from the previous one.

At the lack for any other forms to still offer consolation, to still give her strength, Sansa placed a feather soft kiss against Margaery’s lips once the pain had lifted . Six weeks had passed since the last time she had kissed her, thirty-nine days precisely. This was the worst moment. Now she finally did, she cursed herself for every single one, for every single hour she had not spent with Margaery and had not held her and kissed her.

A shaky smile flitted over Margaery’s face as they separated. “Drawing all registers so I won’t die on you.”

Sansa smiled as well. “A remembrance of what you would miss out on could not hurt.”

The smile was yet in place as Margaery rolled the small vial between her hand and uncork it. “A nice notion to fall asleep with.”

She drank it vigorously, without ever receiving an explanation what it should help with. Help with the pain, slow the birth, hurry it along, let her pass out, Sansa felt that Margaery would have been overjoyed with either of those implements. As long as _something_ happened. This waiting in helplessness was dreadful.

It concerned Sansa how very willingly she had slipped into bed after hours where she had rejected to even sit down, yet Margaery’s eyes had already become heavy by the time Sansa placed the blanket over her. Perhaps the more than half a day of contractions had taken its toll from her, or perhaps Sansa’s reluctant promise had provided her enough consolation to dare and go to sleep. Sansa honestly did not identify which option she liked less.

Her hand drew over Margaery’s forehead and she smiled at her, alike when she yet more felt like crying. “Are you comfortable? I can fetch you another pillow. Or a blanket?”

“I’m fine, sweet girl,” Margaery answered with a weak smile.

It had been weeks as well since she called her that.

Not since that day in the Sept, like it had worried her that it would provoke the same reaction from her it had then. That she said it now…. Sansa hoped that it had more to do with the kiss they had just shared and not so much with their conversation. That it was a sign that they would move ahead, rather than a term of sentiment she wanted to use again before she- No. It was because of the kiss. For sure.

“You should get some sleep too,” Margaery told her with half-closed eyes. “You look terribly exhausted.”

“Don’t you perceive how to compliment a girl,” Sansa said with a wave of her head, her fingers curled tighter around Margaery’s. “I’m good right where I am.”

“Rest with me?”

Sansa smiled at her fondly for an instant before she moved on top of the sheets next to Margaery. She did not cover herself up, did not even bother to take her boots off. Just granted herself a small point of rest, and of being close to Margaery. She lay on her left side looking at Margaery who was on her back, still holding on to her hand.  

She observed how Margaery’s eyes became heavier and heavier, to where she could barely hold them open and her breathing grew deeper. When Sansa was sure she’d already drifted off, Margaery surprised her when a mumbled sentence came from her lips.

“That morning, when I woke with you in my arms, I knew that I’d never want to wake again without you beside me.”

Sansa’s heart ached. They both had woken by themselves every morning since then. What a waste. A waste of time they could have spend together. A waste of every moment where she had longed to hold her, touch her, kiss her, where she had denied it herself.

“Every morning since then I’ve woken up and felt this hinge of disappointment. Like waking up was not worth it if you weren’t there,” Margaery went on. “Do you know how terrifying it is that you carry such power over me?”

Sansa smiled, leaned forward and urged a chaste kiss to Margaery’s cheek, placed an arm around her and sued the front of her body tightly against Margaery’s side.

“How could I fail to know?”

She lay beside her and examined in a sense of relief how Margaery’s chest started to rise and fall in a slower manner, was reassured that she had eventually found a bit of rest, knew that she required it.

Sansa sat back in her chair as soon as she was confident Margaery had dozed off. She could not sleep even if her whole body begged for it. Felt she could not risk it to fall asleep.

Instead she silently sat there, watched Margaery’s sleeping form, and prayed, sincerely prayed for the first time since a long time. She had manged to derail her thoughts, force the rough ones to the back of her mind, but it appeared that the distraction she had provided Margaery through the last hours had equally been for herself. Now that it was gone, that she had nothing to do but look at her, nothing to divert her thoughts from the worry of losing her.

In the silence she had no chance but to concede to herself that losing Margaery was a legitimate possibility. Not something that was an obscure hazard, or a remote chance, but instead something -if matters did not alter, or a change would arise- she would have to face in a couple of hours.

It was a reflection she could rarely bear to think to the end, but found that she had to. This could be the last hours she ever spent with Margaery, this could be her last night. She felt she required to be prepared for that possibility and accepted at the same time that there was no means to be prepared.  

Margaery had reappeared in her life only a couple of months ago and already Sansa could no longer imagine a world without her. It was unthinkable that this could be it, that this was all the time she would be granted with her.

That sense of dread was only worsened when the relief that Margaery at least got some rest did not last as long as Sansa had hoped. Whatever the Maester had given her let her sleep, but did only little for her contractions, which was a combination that had Margaery in a state somewhere between superficial sleep, that was interrupted every few minutes by a contraction, which where strong enough to make her moan in pain, but never quite wake her.

Sansa could not help but flinch when Margaery’s groans of pain grew louder and her body, even in her sleeping state, heaved of the mattress. Her eyes were closed as if she was sleeping, but she contorted her face in discomfort. Quiet moans left her lips. Fingers clenched into Sansa’s to the point where it became painful, and a small eternity passed until it loosed again, until Margaery’s body relaxed into the bed and slumber caught up with her.

Sansa watched the horrific sight of Margaery cramping up in pain, arching off the mattress for what must have been at least a hundred times throughout the night. Even in the induced sleep she could see that Margaery’s strength was wavering.

Seeing Margaery, the ever so strong and proud Margaery, in quite such a misery hurt Sansa beyond belief. Made her feel so helpless, so useless.  

She had lost many people in her life, but had never been on the agonizing end of watching it happen, of feeling the moment approach so very, very slowly. The tears that were burning in her eyes she could only barely hold back anymore, her strength was wavering as much as Margaery’s, too long the night had been, too big was her exhaustion, too great was her fear.

She had no idea if Margaery was even still aware of her presence, if the combination of the pain and the sleeping potion had her too far off to be aware of anything around her. Still for the next couple of hours, she stayed by her side restlessly. She held her hand, wiped the sweat off her forehead, kissed her knuckles and just hoped that this was enough for now.

The Maester was with them twice during this time to examine Margaery. Both times Sansa did not move from her seat, but watched with exhausted eyes, gave him a questioning hopeful look as his hands palpated over her stomach only to be on the receiving end of a shake of his head both times.

Still no change. The child remained in the wrong position that made a delivery sheer impossible, and the womb had almost completely opened.

Stoically she sat there and gripped onto Margaery’s hand. It was not apparent to herself anymore if she wished to give Margaery strength or herself. Closing her eyes, she pressed the cold hand within her own against her lips one more time.

Please don’t die, she pleaded quietly. Don’t leave me.

A hand shaking her shoulder drew her from a sleep she had not realized she had fallen into. Her head rested next to Margaery’s on her bent arm that tingled from the strange position. Sansa blinked as she forced herself up. The light suggested that it was amidst the morning hours, the time when she’d set up her course to the Wolf’s Wood the previous day. Her eyes instantly settled on Margaery whom looked still in her uneasy state somewhere between misery and superficial sleep, restlessly convolving in her bed, moaning like she had earlier alone during her contractions, now this were her sounds in between.

Only then her eyes shifted to the person who had woken her, and she was startled to see Arya standing behind her.

“We require you in the Solar,” Arya informed her in a gentle tone.

Sansa shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever it is you will have to deal with it.”

“It’s about this, about Margaery” Arya revealed. “How to proceed.”

Still Sansa shook her head. No, there was solely one place where she needed to be right now and that was on Margaery’s side.

“Tell the Maester to come here,” she answered.

“It’s not alone the Maester who wants to talk to you,” Arya explained. “There is a dispute going on which calls for your judgment, one that is best not to be taken in here.”

“I can’t leave her alone.”

“I can stay with her for a while.”

That proposal did not ease Sansa’s mind, even if she appreciated the offer. Things between Arya and Margaery were uneasy, that was not something to bring into this chamber at the time either. Arya was not who Margaery needed, who could provide her consolation.

“You will require a clear head. And that you will not have while remaining here, seeing her weave in pain,” Arya gave her sister an insisting look.

Sansa shook her head anew, she could not leave. Not now. The thought that Margaery might wake up, might need something and she was not there. The idea that she couldn’t wake anymore and that Sansa would be somewhere else.

“I know you’re scared,” Arya stated.

Terrified, Sansa thought.

“I can’t lose her,” she confided. “You were right the other day, when you asked me if…?“ She could not say it, considered that admitting it now outloud would be like giving up on her-“I do. So much.”

She loved her.

It felt awful that it had taken a night of watching Margaery suffer, to eventually realize that, to admit it to herself.

There had been a time when Sansa had determined to do the ultimate right thing, not being sucked in by this vixen. Now all Sansa could aspire, was that she would get a chance to make up for it. In the light of right now, of a possible death, how awful was Margaery’s wrong doing still? How serious of a sin was a lie born out of fear anyway? Sansa felt willing to forgive bigger sins, if it only meant that she would get to hold Margaery again, to kiss her again and talk to her again; tell her that she loved her

“All the reason more to go,” Arya insisted and then elaborated why. “A friend of Jon arrived yesterday. Samwell Tarly. He’s been arguing with the Maester for the last hour about how to help her. I think you should hear what he has to say.”

Sansa’s eyes were directed on Margaery’s pained face as she rode out this wave of pain ever too slowly, her body relaxed back into the pillow weakly afterwards.

“Jon told me about him,” she spoke her thoughts out loud, took a moment longer to bring the name into the proper correlation.

Only slowly her mind brought together all that Jon had told her about him. Samwell Tarly, the boy who’d been forced by his father to join the Night’s Watch, who’d had an unsteady start at Castle Black, who had the biggest book knowledge Jon had ever seen, who’d grown into a dear friend and confidant to her brother. The one he’d sent to the Citadel in Old Town… to become a Maester.

Her heart was in her throat abruptly. Could this man, Samwell Tarly, be the miracle she had prayed for?

The hand tensing in her own drew Sansa from the path of speculation, and let her prepare herself for the next contraction, but instead of the reflexed cramping grip, it was a soft squeeze. And then another one. Fingers intertwined with her own.

It took Sansa a moment before she dared to look up, because she was scared she was imagining it.

“Go.” The voice was weak and hoarse, but so familiar and Sansa could not help the smile at the sound. Margaery still lay on the bed as she had several seconds ago, her eyes closed, her forehead drawn up in discomfort. “I’ll wait here.”

The attempt at a joke went unappreciated, because only an instant after uttering the words Margaery‘s body arched in agony, her gentle hold turning into an tight grip. Sansa could tell that this time it was stronger and lengthier than all before. Where she had been moaning before, now for the first time she could not hold the cry that build up in her throat.

When it was over, she sank back into the bed, exhausted, still turned her head towards Sansa. It looked like it took considerable strength out of her and the general expression of discomfort only impaired, but Margaery cast her eyes up to look at Sansa.

There was soft insistence in them.

It had the curious effect to make Sansa more averse to go than ever before, while she grasped at the same stage she had to, now more than ever.  

There had been times during the night when she had not been sure that Margaery would look at her again. Then she had been anxious that she could not recall what her eyes looked like.

She kissed Margaery’s lips tenderly.

“I will be back as fast as I can,” she vowed. “Seek not to do anything stupid while I’m away. I mean it this time.”

There was the hint of a smile on Margaery’s lips even as she closed her eyes once again.

Instructing Arya to send for her the second anything changed, Sansa allowed her sister to replace her in her seat and turned one lingering look to Margaery. Thus hurried strides brought her towards the Solar. The castle was wide awake outside the chamber. Life was running its customary way even when her own world was at a cruel hold.

It was more than she had moved all night and with the first steps she perceived how heavy her own exhaustion went. She felt shaky, her back ached, she felt herself trembling - either from the cold or the apprehension that the news of this stranger brought.

Outside the door to the Solar she already heard loud voices, arguing.

She opened the door to see the Maester bracing himself on the table, evidently agitated as he talked to the man across from him. “How many babes have you delivered boy? How much do you know besides what you have studied in books?”

He reeled in his remarks when he discovered her, but only lost little of his indignation.

The tension in the room was palpable. Her brother was sitting in his chair on the one end of the table, the Maester standing to his right, the young man whom she assumed as Samwell Tarly and a young woman on the other side, Sansa came to a hold on the opposite end of Bran.

“My sister said you have a way to help?” Sansa addressed Samwell not bothering with introductions or amenities.

“She does,” Samwell clarified making a gesture to the young woman who stood beside him. “Gilly here knows a method to shift the child, one she has seen many times successfully.”

Sansa’s eyes settled on the young, meek looking girl. She could not be much older than herself, could not have the experience of years of midwifery. Certainly not matching the experience of the Maester.

She studied at the young woman with dispirited eyes. After a night without sleep and her emotions all over the place. Sansa knew better than to still bring her hopes up, because every time she had so far, something crushed them and it drew more strength from her.

“You have seen a condition like this one before?”

The girl nodded. “Several milady.”

“And what is it you propose to do?”

“An altogether too risky approach,” the Maester interjected with a shake of his head.

“I did not ask you,” Sansa clarified harshly.

The girl seemed intimated by her tone as well and gave an unsure look to Samwell who nodded.

“It’s called the two-handed safe. It works once the womb is fully open. You set a sling around the babe’s legs,” the girl spoke in a quiet voice, but gained courage as she went on, her hands mimicking a movement that only made little sense to Sansa. “You push the child up with one hand pull its legs down and out with the aid of the sling.”

Samwell took a piece of paper off the table and handed it to her. It was a basic drawing, but gave Sansa a clearer perception of what the girl had just described to her.

Her knowledge on these matters was more than basic, but she could see how this would work.

“I have helped with the delivery of two dozen babes,” the girl spoke then. Sansa almost felt guilty for not even recalling her name. “And I have seen the two-handed safe used several times.”

“Why would you have seen it when the Maester hasn’t?”

“We don’t have Maester’s North of the wall, milady. And babes are still born.”

“But you have not done it yourself.” Sansa gave the girl a relentless look, who shook her head.

Could she let these strangers try it? Could she place the lives of Margaery and her child into the abilities of two people she knew nothing about?

If she passed this decision and things went wrong, this would be on her. But what other alternative did she have?  

“You don’t know us,” Sam conceded, gathering her reluctance. “But I know Gilly would not have brought it up if she was not confident she could do it.”

“It has worked in the past,” Bran confirmed.

Sansa’s eyes drew to her brother. She appreciated his reassurance, but she felt so drained. Too drained to still put much faith in anyone.

“I’ve known Lady Margaery since I was a boy,” Samwell added. “I know her to be one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. Please, let Gilly help her.”

She did not perceive why, but the words eased her.

“Milady,” the Maester interrupted another time. “I believe the harm that this could do immense. They do not teach this in any part of Westeros and for good reason. During a labour this far advanced there is no knowing what damage this kind of interference could create - from a rupture in the womb wall to creating a significant bleeding, to even being fatal for the child.”

“Barely more harm than the interference you proposed,” Sansa eyed him warily. “You declared you’d study manuscripts to detect an alternative to save her. Did you encounter something?”

He pressed his lips together, the opposition not gone, but shook his head. “There is still time though,” he claimed. “Yet a chance for the child to turn.”

The memory of the image of Margaery being positively torn apart by contraction after contraction came to her mind and pushed her into her decision. Sitting around only a moment longer and just watching, not doing anything, and waiting for the last bits of strength to leave her was not an option.

“No,” she concluded shook her head. “We are done waiting.”

As she led the pair to Margaery’s chamber, Margaery’s echoes of pain could be gathered from halfway down the hall. While terrifying on the one side, a small part of Sansa was likewise glad to have a proof she was yet hanging in there.

When entering the chamber, Arya still sat on her beside as she had left her. She held Margaery’s hand, something that nearly brought tears to Sansa’s eyes, all while looking as out of place as possible and evidently glad for Sansa’s return. When her sister was out the room, Sansa vowed herself that she would thank her later appropriately. Now she was already focused on Margaery again who was uneasily convolving in her bed, moaning so loudly like she had earlier only during her contractions, now this were her sounds in between.

She carefully gathered her face in her hands as she crouched down to her. “Margaery?” She addressed her gently, “Open your eyes for me? I have Samwell and-” she threw a questioning and likewise apologetic glance over her shoulder.

“Gilly,” the girl offered from the end of the bed.

“I have Samwell and Gilly here, she has seen stubborn babes like yours before and she can help.”

There was no reaction from Margaery, not any that implied she had heard her words at least, only the continuous moan of pain was now on her lips. Sansa did not brood or press for an answer, instead took this as a signal they demanded to move ahead before things grew worse.

Sansa sat on the upper end of the bed, right by Margaery’s head making space for Gilly to work and tightened her fingers around Margaery’s. She had prayed for a way that would save her and this was their first flicker of hope in all of this. They did not have the time to ponder, had to seize chances as they occurred.

The needed preparations were minimal, within moments Gilly was at the bed, lifting Margaery’s nightgown with no hesitance and examining her stomach and the opening of her womb carefully. Margaery made a noise of discomfort at the hands that firmly felt along the muscles which were contracting her womb.

“Milady,” Gilly spoke gently  to Margaery. “I will help you, but I’m sorry this will hurt even worse before it becomes better.”

With the woollen sling in her hands Gilly started to carry out what she had described between Margaery’s legs.

Sansa was not prepared for the scream of agony that came from Margaery as Gilly went on with her effort. She urged her face into the side of Sansa’s skirt muffling cries of pain. Her hand had a vice grip on Sansa’s, the free one twisted into the sheets beneath her.

“Is this supposed to hurt her this much?”

Gilly did not look up as she spoke to her. “Childbirth is not a pleasant thing generally. This is does not pass it easier.”

Sansa bit her lip to silence words of debate, she preferred her to stop, could not see Margaery this tormented on top of the miserable state she was already in. Yet she realized that this was their best chance, their only in chance perhaps, and as long as Margaery could take it, she would keep her mouth shut. Margaery had been in pain for hours, for practically an entire day, so much that she’d reached a stage where she’d considered sacrificing her own life for that of her child, they could not be timid now.

Gilly continued her work until the next contraction built in Margaery, only then she seemed incapable to take a moment longer and her legs closed on their own accord and her hands extended up to push those intruding hands away.

Gilly looked slightly dismayed when her palms moved back to her stomach after the contraction had passed, seemingly it had undone whatever she had achieved to do. She sought to act quicker the second time around, did not grant Margaery much time to regain from the pain put worked on her with little reluctance as soon as she had reclined back into the bed, still once again with the same result.

When she made another attempt Sansa stopped her.

“She needs a break,” she ordered, her voice gentle for the sake of Margaery, a lot calmer than she felt.

Sansa brushed a hand through Margaery’s damp hair as she only gradually recovered her breathing. She would not make it through many more tries, she had had limited strength going into this, and that had taken a lot out of her.

Gilly shook her head then. “It’s not working as I hoped,” she relented, there was a red stain on the linen towel after she wiped her hand.

The words ripped away the hope Sansa had felt and she almost frantically drew her fingers through Margaery's hair. She should have perceived better than to give her life into someone she barely knew. Someone so inexperienced. In her worry to lose her, she had unknowingly risked to lose her even sooner. 

“I need her sitting up,” Gilly contemplated, her eyes quickly darted to Sansa. “You will need to hold her.”

It took Sansa all of a second before she gathered her skirts and knelt down on the bed. “Lift her up,” she ordered Samwell, and he promptly got a hold both of Margaery’s upper arms drawing her forward into an upright position, so that Sansa could slide behind her. Weak sounds protest left her lips and her head fell back against Sansa’s shoulder. To Gilly’s command Sansa pushed the both of them forward until Margaery’s legs hung from the lower end of the bed.

Gilly took a hold of Margaery’s ankles and bent her legs. Almost automatically Sansa’s hands reached out, and she held them back by her knees. Margaery rested heavy against her, not an ounce of strength left in her body.

“Hold her tight,” she directed. “This will be difficult and I can’t have her moving too much.”

Sansa watched over Margaery’s shoulder how Gilly knelt between Margaery’s legs. In her one hand she the piece of woolen sling, the other one was on top of her stomach, assuming for the exact position of the child.

Sansa watched one more time in dismay as Gilly reached into her womb to first fix the sling and then appeared to carry out on turning the babe. Carefully pulling and pushing, her face clear of concentration. She acted with swift and precise gestures, and still Margaery arched up by the sheer unbelievable agony and suddenly what had been so simple before, holding Margaery against herself, spun into quite the challenge. Margaery started shaking her head, struggling to bring those intruding hands to leave her alone and Sansa tightened her grasp on Margaery’s legs, her nails sinking into Margaery’s skin in order not to let her shift away.

Margaery begged and cried for them to leave her alone without actual words, this new unknown pain adequate to wake her from her stupor, but no one had any mercy on her and it felt like an eternity until Gilly finally accomplished what she was seeking to achieve and the small legs of a child emerged with the other end of the string. Margaery fell back against Sansa heavily, a mess out of crying and sobbing, only enough strength left in her to shake her head.

Gilly still knelt at the foot of the bed, her hands bloody, but her expression hopeful. She only gave herself and Margaery a minute to breathe before she cleaned her hands on the cloth in her lap and took Margaery’s face between them.

“With the next pain I need you to start pushing,” she told her resolutely.

If Margaery had heard the words, she didn’t acknowledge them. Maybe couldn’t. For a moment Sansa was frightened that she might have lost consciousness, but then she noticed her muscles stiffen, as a fresh pain build within her.

“You’re practically there, Marg,” she told her and felt the cold sweat as she urged her cheek against Margaery’s. “Please don’t give up now.”

She could see that Margaery tried working with the pain. Her eyes were squeezed tight and her whole body lifted itself the slightest bit off Sansa, but it was not adequate.

“That was great,” Gilly said nevertheless. “Just a couple more times.”

“I can’t,” she whispered, exhausted.

“Yes, you can.“ Sansa’s arms around her tightened, she was so incredibly glad to hear her voice. “We got you this far, you’re almost there.”

Margaery shook her head.

“Please,” Sansa pleaded, her voice hoarse. “He is almost out.”

Margaery’s eyes fluttered open.

“He?” It was a breathless whisper.

Sansa had not even recognized what she had revealed, not deliberately. The child’s lower body was almost altogether out of her, supported by Gilly’s hand, and yes - _he_ \- undoubtedly a little boy.

A teary sound escaped Sansa, and she drew Margaery more tightly against herself. “Yes, _he_. Your son.”

Those words, the discovery, let Margaery gather her last remnants of strength, and with the direction from Gilly, with the next pain she started pushing. Sansa was with her in every moment, supporting her lean forward, drawing her knees back, prompting her with triads of well-meant words.

And then, shortly before Sansa was assured that this new discovered strength had already ceased, and that maybe it was not sufficient after all, there was a grasp of release that went through Margaery’s rigid body, through the whole room. Margaery fell back against Sansa.

Gilly smiled as she held the tiny boy in her hands.

“Why isn’t he screaming? Shouldn’t he be crying?” It was the longest line of words Margaery had uttered in hours, perhaps all night, appeared out hoarse and in a rushed breath, her eyes darting over the child with worry.

Sansa almost gasped as Gilly turned the child on her arm with easy hands and gave a light slap to his behind, bringing about the so far missing high clear echo of a babe’s cry.

The breath that Margaery took was long and heavy, not as shallow as the ones she had stuck to for the last couple of hours and it resulted in a sob. They brought the babe into her trembling arms, against her chest, a linen towel protecting him from the cold and Margaery held him to herself.

Sansa loosened her grasp on her legs, instead supported trembling arms that were holding the child and pressed her cheek against Margaery’s, as she glanced over her shoulder, at the baby boy, who’s screams turned to whimpers now that he was lying against his mother's heart. Only then she recognized that the tears she felt on her face were no longer just Margaery’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Glad that this is over, I think? :)  
> So: deserved favorite or not?  
> Did the Sam/Gilly Deus Ex Machina work for you?   
> Was I bordering on the melodramatic here, perhaps not even bordering anymore? 
> 
> Feel free to also yell at me after that emotional roller coaster. :) I'm so very excited to hear your thoughts!
> 
> A great week ahead to all of you! 
> 
> (By the way, for those of you interested, and perhaps also for better understanding: The method Gilly used "the two handed intervention" was a real thing to save women in the past. First described by the court midwife Justine Siegemund - https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2791243/ )


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

It was bare exhaustion she felt in the moment that Gilly placed the child in her arms. This last day, precisely the last hours, had taken everything out of her. More strength than she had even knew she had.

Margaery was sure she was deemed to feel something at this point, the minute where she held her child, her son, for the first time, but where before the pain had blocked her from forming a simple thought, now the exhaustion had the same effect on her.

She was conscious of things around her, but could not connect a meaning to any of it yet. Not of Sansa’s body that pressed into her back, or her arms that supported her as she held the child to herself. Not to the boys tiny warm body on her chest, the rise and fall of his rib cage beneath her hand, the soft tickling of his breath against her skin. Likewise, not to the hands that still worked between her legs.

All she understood was tiredness that reached to her core, that and relief that it was over, the agony and the fear. Relief to have arrived at the other side.

Like throughout the entire night she was more of a spectator in what took place around her, than a lively participant, even though she remained the centre of attention.

When the child was taken from her arms her head dropped back against Sansa’s shoulder once more, her eyes drifting close, as arms tightened around her middle and she pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Thank you.”

Sansa sighed the words right into her ear, and she could hear the tears in them, that profound grasp of gratefulness. She did not respond anything to it, merely descended into the hold a little further.

When she opened her eyes again it was hard to say how much time had passed. She was resting in bed, assessed merely after a moment that they had settled her in a fresh nightgown and fresh sheets. The room was calmer and more tidy than in the short hours of the morning. That mess of basins, linens, oils and herbs was gone, a fresh fire burning in the chimney, and by her bedside was Sansa, smiling down at the fur-covered bundle that rested in the crook of her arm.

“What time is it?” Margaery‘s mouth was as dry as sandpaper.

Blue eyes flitted to her startled, and a gentle smile emerged on Sansa’s face. “Just a little after noon.”

It was hardly a couple of hours of sleep, but those had served her a decent job in recovering her energy. Her mind was a lot more clear now; in a way the memories of the previous hours seemed like a bizarre dream, if it wasn’t for the obvious proof of a babe in Sansa’s arms that showed it wasn’t.

“How are you feeling?”

Pushing herself into a sitting position, Margaery felt how truly sore her body still was. The area between her legs still felt like a single gaping wound and the joint of her hips hurt. It was a strange feeling, besides discomfort also; for how much her pregnant stomach had been in the way of everything she had done in the past days, now with the child no longer inside of her she felt strangely gutted, like something was missing.

“Sore,” she offered, wincing as she had finally managed to sit up against the headboard.

“That is to be expected I think.” Sansa stood up from the chair, sat on the edge of the bed. She just continued to smile softly and the content she radiated was nearly unsettling. “What you endured and accomplished was astonishing.”

It did not feel like such a great accomplishment to Margaery herself as she had never been more out of control of her actions than in those hours during and shortly before they had pulled the child from her.

Her eyes landed on the tiny boy in Sansa’s arms and by an instinct her arms reached out, indicating to Sansa that she wanted to hold him. With the same smile still firmly in place Sansa leaned forward and cautiously placed the sleeping child into the crook of her arm.

“I am afraid you were right last night, he is most precious, there is absolutely no discussion there.”

Margaery managed a small smile at the words, as she brushed a hand over the fluff of soft brown hair on his head. It was the first proper look she got at him, her mind not quite as blurred anymore as it had been in the moment where she had held him right after his birth.

“I’d say he’s already holding an undeniable Tyrell look, wouldn’t you?” Sansa smiled at her brightly.

Margaery’s hand stilled as she studied the small face.

In the past when people claimed that new-borns already held a certain resemblance to either mother or father, Margaery had failed to see it, had considered it as those raging emotions that new mothers had, and considered herself that it was something that only came apparent when they lost some of their initial smushdness.

It was not raging emotions in this case, the strain still sat too deep in her, made it hard to build a coherent thought, but as she looked at him now, she could clearly see a resemblance to herself in him. It was not possible to point out exactly what it was, or what gave her the indication, but he most obviously, not even more than a couple of hours after his birth, did look like a Tyrell.

“Loras,” Margaery said then quietly. “I think he looks like Loras.”

Pulling the corner of the fur blanket back to get a better look, Sansa then nodded and let her hand rest on the child’s torso. “Yes, you’re right.”

As Margaery took in the small face, the tiny hands that reached out from beneath the blankets, the frown on his face that made the resemblance to her brother even greater, she searched in herself for how she felt. And the first and foremost emotion that came to her mind in that moment was fear. Fear for the knowledge that he was her, and only her, responsibility. That sense was nothing she had ever felt like this, it was nearly paralyzing.

A hand that cupped the side of her face pulled her from her thoughts, and she met Sansa’s dazzling smile as her thumb brushed over her cheek.

“I’m so proud of you,” Sansa spoke softly. “You were so brave, and so strong.”

Margaery did not quite manage to return the smile. She couldn’t agree to the sentiment. Had never felt as weak and helpless as she had in the process of giving birth. At last she shook her head.

“That was all you,” she corrected. “I don’t think I’d be here holding him if it wasn’t for you.”

Sansa leaned in and brought their lips together in a soft kiss, that yet captured some of the desperation she’d felt throughout the night. Margaery melted into the touch, could enjoy it a whole deal better than the one the previous night. She had missed Sansa’s touch a great deal more than she could say.

“I would suggest joint effort,” Sansa mused, with their faces only inches apart, her eyes boring into Margaery’s. “But in the end, you were the one who gave birth.”

Margaery lowered her eyes, suddenly feeling bashful for how weak and desperate the process of birth had left her, how miserable Sansa had seen her. She should not have minded that as much as she did, should have felt enough at ease with her to not let that be a factor at all.

Sansa dove in for another kiss, as if she guessed that she needed to erase dark musings from her mind; she did manage to do so - at least for a moment.

A soft whimper from the boy in her arms drew her attention there then. Sansa still smiled softly, her fingers rubbing over the child’s belly. “I figured he’d be hungry soon and hoped he would not be before you woke up.”

Margaery’s hand drew over his head and she felt a little lost then. The concept of nursing did not seem too complicated, but she still did not know how to go about it. Just latch the kid on hoping he’d drink? Or was there some kind of preparation necessary?

“How about I go and fetch Gilly?” Sansa suggested, reading her thoughts and her insecurity. “She said to come and get her once you were awake.”

Margaery nodded, and still felt overwhelm rise in her chest when Sansa went out the door. His sounds of discomfort grew louder and she did her best trying to sooth him with words, by slightly rocking him, but did not succeed with anything.

Had he been born like he was supposed to, in King’s Landing, within the Red Keep as the King’s heir, already in those first hours his life would have been so different. There would have been a whole army of people to take care of him, to protect him, he would have been handed off to a wet-nurse not long after being born… now for better or worse - she was it, she was all he had, and one more time that understanding of responsibility brought a deep sense of fear to her whole existence.

He was so perfectly innocent, so unaware of all the dangers around him, so absolutely depended on her. The need to protect this child had been there when she had been still pregnant, only she had never thought it would grow into this deep and all overwhelming sense of obligation that seemed to take her breath away.

She was in a state where she was not sure that her own legs would carry her yet, and now suddenly there was this small still so strange other human being that depended on her.

She managed a small smile despite to cover up the turmoil that was going on in her mind when Sansa came back with Gilly.

In the horror of the birth she did not recall much about the people that had surrounded her, also not the girl who’d been the one to help get the child out of her, only what she recalled was a lot different than the young woman who smiled at her shyly now as she sat on the edge of the bed.

“How are you feeling milady?”

“Sore and exhausted,” Margaery replied, managed a smile. “But thanks to you, alive. Both of us.”

It was the second time she owed someone her life and once again she was not able to offer more than words of gratitude, that did not seem nearly enough.

“I’m glad I was able to help,” Gilly offered a smile in return.

Gilly was patient in the guidance she provided, showed her the best way to go about with nursing the child, spoke softly, as she explained that the flow of milk would not be considerable at this point, but be assured to set in properly by giving it a first try now.

Nursing a child on her breast was a strange sensation, and not just because it served once again as a reminder how very dependent this little babe was on her. She did not have much milk yet that she could provide him and he still latched on eagerly, needing no encouragement, no guidance or prompting of any kind.Any other occasion of her life, Margaery considered herself delicate and skilful in just about every task she brought her hands to do, only then, in the attempt to move him in her arms, to switch him to her other breast she felt entirely clumsy. Holding him in her arms came naturally in a way, there was nothing she could do wrong there; shifting him, supporting his head, making sure he landed correctly in the crook of her other arm felt like a science altogether, one she figured she could not have managed if it was not for Gilly’s guiding hands.

“I think it’s my turn again now,” Sansa interjected, smiling when it was time to burp him.

For how awkward Margaery still felt with handling and holding him, as great was Sansa in both. She effortlessly took him from her arms and took the little body against herself so that his head reached almost over her shoulder.

 After Gilly left, Sansa carried him through the room, softly padding against the small back, smiling brightly at Margaery whenever she faced in her direction.

It was stirring how happy she seemed to hold him, how absolutely enchanted. It was the normal, expected reaction to seeing a precious infant, or so Margaery at least supposed. She didn’t find that in herself. Not even an ounce of it. Only this crushing responsibility, this crushing fear.

One that did not lessen when Sansa placed him back in her arms, and once again sat by her side. “He is so precious I don’t think I’ll ever tire looking at him.”

Again, something that was a normal reaction, a natural one when looking at a babe. Only the longer she looked at him, the tighter her chest felt and the more the fear grew. She couldn’t even put a word on it what she was afraid of exactly, maybe it was not exactly fear, but it came closest to describe it.

“Have you thought of a name for him yet?”

Margaery blinked up from him and into Sansa’s smiling face, her vision then blurred by tears.

A name. She had not thought of that. Had not spared a single thought to it. It was not something that took up great time or effort, and yet she didn’t have one. Not even an idea.

She pressed a hand against her lips to silence the sob that worked its way up her throat, but had no means to do anything about the tears that rolled over her cheeks in masses.

Sansa seemed startled with her reaction for a moment, but quickly recovered and did the only thing she could think of. She sat next to Margaery, placing an arm around her shoulder and pulling her tightly against her side, Margaery’s head landing on her shoulder as she cried more and more tears.

“What is it?” She asked while her hands drew through curls. “Did I say something wrong?“

Margaery did not manage more than another choked sob in return, as more tears started to soak her face.

“Is it because he reminds you of Loras?”

She shook her head, only a miserable sound coming from her lips.

“Whatever it is,” Sansa went on. “I’m here to help.”

“I don’t think I can do this,” Margaery finally pressed out, suppressing the sob that wanted to work its way up her throat only barely.

“Do what?”

“Be his mother,” she said the words so quiet, she could not be sure that Sansa even understood her.

“You are not making sense,” Sansa chided while she kept on drawing her hand through her hair affectionately. “I think you are still very exhausted.”

She could have easily left it at that, agreed with her and never talk about it again. It was too horrible to say it out loud anyway. Sansa was right. She was sleep deprived and her entire body hurt, her thoughts were not clear no matter how much she thought they were. Closing her eyes and trying to get some sleep would be the best and most sensible thing.

Perhaps it was that overwhelmed exhaustion that prompted the words still.

“I don’t _feel_ anything.”

It scared her more than she could put in words. During her entire pregnancy she had hung onto the hope that she’d feel like a mother, feel that love a mother was supposed to feel for her child, that kind that everyone talked about when she first saw her child. But the longer she looked at him the more empty she felt. Yes, there was that sense of responsibility, that sense that she needed to protect him, but that was not it. Could not be it.

“For him you mean?”

Sansa’s free hand landed on the small baby boy who slept tightly, so completely unaware for the turmoil of feelings that he was in the middle of.

“Mother’s are supposed to love their children, aren’t they? But I don’t feel … _anything_.”

A fresh trail of tears worked its way over her face.

It was not entirely true. She felt sorry for her boy, because he certainly deserved better than that. He was so small, so innocent, had not hurt anyone yet, had not made stupid mistakes; all he did was exist and be so very reliant on her, and that made it only worse, because he deserved better. Better than a loveless mother. Better than a life that was so very insecure. Definitely better than her.

“I don’t believe that,” Sansa said after a moment of careful contemplating.

Didn’t believe it or didn’t want to?

“Hours before he was born I said I hated him,” Margaery whispered, so glad that she did not have to look at Sansa in this moment.

The fingers that were brushing through her hair did not stop for a moment.  

“And do you?”

She shook her head slowly. No. How could she? None of this was anything she could blame a babe for which was not older than a couple hours.

“But I don’t think I can love him either.”

There. She had said it.

It was the simplest, most basic thing in this world. Something that any other woman in this world mastered - something that someone as terrible as Cersei had accomplished. Margaery had never considered herself a cold person, rather the opposite, but now she doubted how much of that was true. Perhaps she could only love when there was something for her to gain. Affection in return, passion, security.

They sat in silence for a while after that, and she was again glad to have to look in Sansa’s eyes for it, did not think she could take what would be for sure disappointment, maybe even shock. Sansa seemed completely enchanted with the boy, it would be beyond her understanding why she - as his bloody mother - did not find that in herself too.

Disappointment and fear overtook her when Sansa pulled away from her, only slightly got better when she cupped the side of her face and arched her neck so she could look her in the eye.

“Would you say you care for me?” Sansa asked gently, the hand on her face gently tilting it towards her.

Margaery furrowed her brows with, sniffing, as she looked up at bright blue eyes that looked at her with much more affection than she could handle, or felt deserved. “You know I do.”

“That’s what I thought.” Sansa smiled softly. “Usually so much that you are unable to reject any request I throw your way, if I know anything.”

Margaery blinked up at her in incomprehension.

“Last night, I begged you not to make the choice to pick his life over yours, but you insisted.”

Understanding where she was going with this Margaery lowered her eyes.

“That was pragmatism,” she said.

“Was it?” Sansa challenged and her thumb drew her thumb over her cheekbone, drifting along the scar tissue there. “You have survived the sheer impossible by alone your will to live, to not give up. And yet last night you were so determined that his chance at live was more important than your own.”

“I was not myself last night.”

Sansa chuckled softly. “And you think you are now? Even more exhausted and faced with holding him in your arms for the first time?”

Margaery swallowed, but could not respond anything, did not trust her voice. Only closed her eyes as Sansa’s second hand cupped the other side of her face.

“Marg, you were more yourself last night then you are now. That determination, to save him, to give your life for him… what was that if not deep maternal love?”

Sansa’s sense to not be able to see her as someone who was able to give such a basic emotion to an infant was expected. It was who she wanted to see her as, and that was heartening and heart breaking all at once.

“Then why don’t I feel it looking at him?”

Sansa smiled with a hint of sadness. “Sometimes not feeling anything can be easier than allowing those that could be overwhelming. Those that change fundamentally who we perceived ourselves as.”

It was not unreasonable, held so much more meaning than she was able to handle in this moment. Still it would not get to her mind.

“I want you to be right,” Margaery breathed.

“You are simply impatient,” Sansa concluded with the hint of a teasing smile. “You have had him in your arms, looked at him properly, for the first time merely an hour ago, give yourself time to know him.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Margaery sniffed. “I doubt he’d be very keen on nightly walks through Winterfell.”

Sansa laughed lightly, her fingers drew into her hair, brushed it behind her ears. “Small steps then. How about giving him a name first? Perhaps even just a last name?”

“Tyrell,” Margaery answered quickly. That was something she did not even have to think about for a second. “He’s a Tyrell.”

Sansa smiled lovingly. “A good first step.” She leaned down to press a kiss against the child’s head. “Little Lord Tyrell. It has a nice ring to it don’t you think?”

It did. Perhaps something to focus on, that was easier than the turmoil of feelings she found herself enwrapped in still.

“And now you rest some more,” Sansa decided for her. “Your thoughts will not stop going on destructive ways unless you get some rest.”

Through the veil of the tears that still hung heavy in her eyes she could see that this went for Sansa just as much as for herself. She had possibly even less sleep than her, and while physically her last day might have not been as exhausting certainly emotionally. Which only made it more astonishing that she still found it in herself to comfort her unreasonable all over the place emotions.

“You should too,” Margaery said wiping at her eyes. “I’m sorry, I know you must be tired to the bone as well.”

Sansa leaned in and pressed a kiss against her cheek, lingering for a moment. “You have priority now to any other needs.”

This woman… Margaery still did not know how she got lucky enough to deserve her.

Sansa then helped her settle on her side, by taking the child from her arms for a moment and placing him next to her thereafter.

“The carpenter is putting last works on refurbishing the cradle,” Sansa told her. “He told me that he is confident to have it done by tonight.”

Margarey slowly closed her eyes as Sansa drew back and closed her eyes at last when she heard steps withdraw. Only they sprung open again when instead of the anticipated sound of the door opening and closing she heart the key in the lock turn.

With a securing hand still on her son’s chest, she turned her head to figure out what was going on. In sincere awe when she saw Sansa standing behind her, her hands on untying the strings of her dress and opening it, revealing the white underdress beneath it.

Catching her surprise, Sansa smiled a little as she drew back the blanket and slipped self-evidently beneath the covers behind her. She cuddled into Margaery’s back securely placing an arm around her waist and pulled her tight, her face nuzzling into the skin on her neck, causing goose bumps to erupt.

“No more waking up alone,” she breathed against her skin.

It brought a smile to Margaery’s face and tore a fresh veil of tears to her eyes as she closed them and fell asleep almost instantly and the warm security of her hold.

It had become dark outside by the time Margaery woke for the second time on this day that just seemed endless. A fire was still burning in the chimney and serving as the only source of light; it made her feel uneasy, but not so much that she couldn’t handle.

Behind her Sansa was still sleeping soundly, and her arm was still around her waist. That the Lady of Winterfell laid down for a nap in the middle of the day in the first place was a true testimony of her exhaustion, and how much she’d upheld herself through what must have been incredible tiredness, all for her sake.

Her eyes were focused then on small hands that reached out from the swaddled up cloths and furs. She reached out for the tiny fingers and watched in fascination how one small hand wrapped around her pointer finger in a strong hold. He had his eyes open, was awake but did not make a sound. Brown eyes only staring up at the ceiling and the room around him as if he knew exactly what was going on.

The thought of just how much he looked like her brother ached in her chest almost uncomfortably, but also brought a strong sense of defiance to her. Not only had Cersei failed to murder her and have House Tyrell forever disappear from the map, no furthermore Margaery had already ensured the ongoing of the line.

She could sort her thoughts a bit better than before falling asleep. Even when the headache and heaviness of crying herself to sleep still made her head and eyes heavy. Even when she was not a single step closer to figuring any of the things that had brought her to tears before out, and felt like recalling them to her mind would bring back the same conflicted emotions that came with it. She would figure it out. Just one day at a time, and today had to be just about the longest day of her life. The hand that wasn’t on the child, reached out to find that of Sansa where it rested over her still so unfamiliar relatively flat stomach and curled around warm slender fingers.

Consciously she knew that it had been Gilly who saved her, only when she considered whom she owed more gratitude, the question was an easy one. She was almost certain that she would have not made it through the last night without Sansa by her side.  

There was a soft hum against her shoulder a moment later, and stirring from Sansa, fingers tightened around her own and lips that landed on the side of her neck.

“Good morning.”

Margaery smiled a little at her sleepy confusion. “Not quite I’m afraid, sweet girl.”

“That would explain why I still feel completely exhausted.”

She could feel her shift behind her, suggesting that she was stretching, then the arm that held her tightened around her and Sansa’s face peered over her shoulder, her cheek still warm from sleep pressing into her own. “How are you feeling?”

Margaery had to search in herself for a moment, to be able to give a proper answer. She honestly did not know, still felt very much strained, still confused, but indeed it did not feel as horrific as it had before falling asleep.

“Better,” she concluded then. “I think.”

“I’m glad,” Sansa returned, she peered a bit further forward. “And how is the little Lord Tyrell doing?”

“Good, I think.”

Now being a little more awake, Margaery noticed that the fear was still there, perhaps not as all overwhelming as before, but she had a definite feeling that there would not be a waking moment for her anymore where she would not fear for him, not feel this deep sense of responsibility.

The all enwrapping concern Margaery felt with the birth of him was something completely new to her. Yes, she had held responsibility before, one might say, that as a queen she had a responsibility that was far greater than just being a mother. Still, whenever she looked at her son, a sense and worry came over her that she had never experienced before. She was worried over every breath he took, every small movement he made. He was so tiny, so innocent, so very dependant on her.

The sense of shame also sat deep within her. About not wanting him. And along with that, again fear. She’d not wanted him from the moment she’d learned of her pregnancy, and now it felt like a bitter irony that she wanted nothing more than to protect him with all that she had. If something happened to him, how could it not be a result of the many nights she had prayed for her pregnancy -for him- just to go away?

“Are you hungry at all? I could send to have us some dinner served.”

Margaery tried to recall the last time she’d eaten anything. It must have been more than a day ago, luncheon before the contraction had started. She had not felt hungry for even a moment in what was one and a half day, but thought it was a good way to get her strength back up, strength she would undoubtedly need.

“Yes, please,” she agreed. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Sansa slipped from behind her with a small kiss to her cheek. Margaery remained on her side for a moment thereafter. She was nearly sure that it was time to nurse the child again, going alone by the tenseness of her breasts, but shouldn’t he be crying? Was that not what hungry babe’s did? He was just there still, eyes blinking up at the world around him like he knew exactly what was going on, when he was so incredibly unaware of all the dangers surrounding him.

Keeping a hand on his chest she sat up in bed, still flinching at the soreness of her body. When she gathered him in her arms this time around it still was not particularly smooth, but she also felt a number less clumsy than before.

Deciding to just give it a try, she opened her nightgown and latched him on with little effort, just how Gilly had shown her. It did not take more than two heartbeats for him to start suckling and drinking.

Her hand brushed over his head and she could not help but smile the tiniest bit, glad that apparently not all maternal instincts had failed her completely.

It took her a moment to catch the other pair of eyes on her from the end of the bed. Sansa stood at the foot end, still only in her underdress, illuminated by the light of the fire behind her, smiling softly. She looked so incredibly beautiful just then.

“I find it a little strange that he has not cried a single time,” Margaery said into the silence. “I thought that this was what babe’s did. Cry, eat and sleep in a never ending cycle.”

“He’s barely half a day old,” Sansa weighed in. “And perhaps still too exhausted as well to do much crying.”

“It’s not making figuring out how to do this a whole lot easier,” Margaery sighed.

Sansa continued to smile softly at her. “From where I’m standing you seem to be doing just fine. And I’m here to help with anything I can.”

She picked her dress up from the bottom end of the bed and slipped into it, not bothering with any precise lacing up, just making sure it stayed in place, then she went to the door unlocking it and finding the next available servant to have them some dinner prepared and brought.

When she returned she busied herself with lighting candles throughout the room, putting a couple of logs onto the fire to spur it on, all to make the room more comfortable for her, Margaery was sure.

The first trays with food where brought in by the time she was done nursing and closed her nightgown back up. She did not have to mention a word to Sansa who was by her side a moment later taking the babe from her arms and bringing him over her should like she’d done previously.

Her eyebrows only shot up scepticaly when she saw Margaery pushing herself forward to the edge of the bed.

“I don’t know if that is the best idea,” she gave for consideration.

While almost a reminder of normality between them, Margaery did not feel like having the same argument yet again. Other women were up and on there feet in the first hours after childbirth, and she finally felt enough strength in herself to do so again.

“At least wait until I have my hands free?” Sansa pleaded, reading her determination very accurately. “Just to ease my mind.”

Not having it in herself to defy her today, or to cause her anymore reason for worry, she remained on the edge of the bed, slowly letting herself get used to holding herself upright.

Sansa placed the child in the middle of the bed not much later and then got a hold of Margaery’s hand, helping her slip forward until her feet touched the ground and she was in a standing position. Almost immediately one arm came around her waist to support her.

“Are you feeling alright?” She asked as Margaery took her first tentative steps forward.

“Alright would be going to far, but I’ll be fine,” Margaery answered. Her body still ached considerably, and sinking down on a hard wooden chair was not something she looked forward to, but after weeks of not getting out of her bed, she longed for the normality of it.

They ate mostly in silence and she caught the cautious looks of concern that Sansa sent her way for the remains of it. She was not comfortable, to say the least, but enjoyed being able to look her in the eye from the same level, enjoyed not feeling sick and weak right there and then.

Still, she was wise enough to not push her luck and pace her strength. She kept on sitting until she’d emptied her cup afterwards and let Sansa lead her back to bed then, again feeling her own limitations all too quickly when she sunk back into the still warm sheets comfortably and drifted off faster than to her own liking.

It was the early morning light falling through the window that woke her the next morning. She was once again in Sansa’s warm and strong hold and loved the way her face was nuzzled into the skin on her neck. She was on her back still like she’d fallen asleep, Sansa was on her left side turned towards her, one arm was around her waist pulling herself, their feet dangled beneath sheets and furs.

It was like Sansa was determined to make sure of her promise that they’d wake up in each others arms as often as feasible and she was more than just fine with that.  

Yet, even through the comfort of the hold on her, even through the tiredness of her mind, something felt off and it took her another moment to put a finger on what exactly that was.

She shot up, when she understood.

Her son.

She’d fallen asleep with him right next to her and now-

At the same time she heard a sound of protest from Sansa, she saw the crib that stood on the left of her, a perfectly peaceful baby boy sleeping inside of it, covered in blankets and furs.

She breathed a breath of relief and only reluctantly sunk back into the arms that were still awaiting her and tightening in the moment she settled back against the soft pillow.

This moment in particular was not something she thought her heart could take for more than a couple of times in her lifetime.

“You were already asleep when they brought the crib,” Sansa mumbled into her hair.

Her momentarily racing heart had slowed down again and she was calm enough to snuggle into the hold and closed her eyes, recovering from the scare and instead concentrating on how she was safely in Sansa’s arms helped with that.

She felt ridiculous for a moment and still placed a hand on the edge of the crib, it eased her mind.

Fingers drew through her hair as Sansa pushed herself up onto her elbow and looked at her eyes only having lost a bit of the concern they had held through the last day, or better yet days. “Did you sleep well?”

“Apparently,” she answered with a deep breath.

Too well if she had not even noticed that Sansa had taken the child from her arms? It did not add to her confidence in herself as a mother.

Sansa smiled softly, unaware of the concerns that were on her mind so early in the morning already.

“I’ll have to get up soon,” she said with reluctance in her voice, her hand continuing its course through her hair.

She had to return to her duty, Margaery understood, and found herself about as happy about it as Sansa sounded. Not only was it the worry of forgoing her company, yet again, staying inside, yet again. She was concerned -afraid- of being alone with the child, in a way that bore no relation to the reality of it. Could not even say why exactly that was. Perhaps a too dire reminder that when it came down to it, she was all he had, and how could that not scare the hell out of her?

She knew that she had to get a hold of herself. This scared, continuously concerned persona was a complete stranger to her. Only how to achieve that had not yet arrived in her mind.

And for the lack of any other way to handle it, she snuggled herself deeper into the hold that Sansa still had on her, trying to make the most of it while she still could, perhaps to gather as much strength from it as possible.

“I wish you didn’t,” Margaery admitted quietly then.

“They’ll arrive soon,” Sansa told her gently. “Perhaps even today. All the heads of the northern houses will for certain.”

She’d have even less time in the days to come, Margaery understood. It would at the very least take days until everything had settled around the arrival of the Dragon Queen.

And once it had, there was still Lord Baelish’s trial they’d have to face, something now more than ever she just wanted to put behind them. Once and for all. Him being alive, and being, at least physically, in any proximity to her son made her nauseous. And that when in all he was the smaller evil, compared to what still lured behind the wall, the reason why Daenerys Targaryen and thousands of soldiers were coming North for.

As well as the Lannister army, led by Jamie Lannister himself.

After months of successfully hiding out, after weeks where she had deemed herself safe here, suddenly everything felt very unsafe again. If she could go back to having no one knowing who she was, of hiding out in that servant chamber, she’d do it in a heartbeat. Chided herself foolish for ever feeling headless enough to put herself out in the open like that… and out of what? Boredom? Stupidity? A sense of invincibility?

It was safe to say she did not feel invincible anymore. Further from it than ever before in her life.

And the reason for that was quite simple, slept soundly in the crib she still had her hand on tightly.

Was this what being a mother was like? Seeing dangers and threats in every corner?

The worst was that it was not all unreasonable. All those threats were very much real and made her so painfully aware of her powerlessness.

 “What are you thinking,” Sansa probed gently.

“Just that I’ll miss you,” she lied in a quiet tone.

“You make it sound like I’m going on an uncertain journey.”

The last thing Margaery wanted was to add to all that Sansa had undoubtedly to worry about, and yet she could not help the tears that rose to her eyes. Margaery wiped at them hastily, in weeks and months she had not cried, had not allowed any kind of misery to her mind and now it was the third time in the length of a day.

Gods, she was not herself, further from it than ever before, but she did not know how to return to it.

Nothing seemed to help with it. Not the fingers that still drew through her hair, not the gentle lips that pressed against her own and let her taste her own salty tears.

She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand once they had parted, could hardly take the still so very concerned eyes that would not allow her to avoid her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Margaery said, trying to bring a regaining breath to her lungs. “I don’t know what is wrong with me.”

“I’ll never be further than a very short walk away from you, should you need me,” Sansa promised embracing her more firmly again, her nose pressing into the side of her face. “I promise.”

It should have soothed her, and it did, the tiniest bit, but it also brought a fresh trail of tears over her face, drew a sob from her throat.

Throughout the tears that followed, Sansa only continued to hold her tightly. Did not bother with any attempts to explain her behaviour, with questions what was going on. Either she just understood what Margaery herself could not quite wrap her head around, or knew that it did not matter right now, was not what she needed.

She took embarrassingly long to calm down, her tears finally subsiding more out of a sense of exhaustion than actually feeling better, and still then Sansa’s arms remained tightly around her for a while after, only let up, as if she knew that Margaery had calmed herself into a comfortable emptiness.

Another soft kiss was placed against her lips, before she at last loosened her hold and got out of bed, standing on Margaery’s side of it only a moment later and holding out a hand.

“Come on,” she asked her with a soft command in her tone. “I think it’s time that you get out of bed. The rest, the pondering, I don’t think that’s good for you.”

When all of the last two weeks, and even yesterday it had been all that Margaery wanted, suddenly she felt too weak for it, was not sure that her legs would really support her, if her mind held the strength for anything but curling herself up beneath blankets and furs.

Still she pushed herself up, and at last took the hand that was held out to her, the other one still safely on the edge of the crib, her knees were as wobbly as the day before, but Sansa had not been wrong when she’d urged her to get up. She did not feel quite as miserable standing on her own two feet.

Hands drew up and down her arms then and a satsified smile was on Sansa’s lips. “We ought to get you washed up, put you in some proper clothes.”

It sounded exhausting.

Which was exactly why she needed it.

Sansa came to her side and slung an arm around her lower back. “But first some fresh air,” she decided firmly.

As she led her a first step forward, she caught the hand that was still holding onto the wood of the small bed, caught the look of concern that slipped into her face, whether she wanted to or not.

She chuckled lightly. “Who’d ever thought you’d be such a mother hen,” she softly urged her another step forward. “Just a moment. Then you can spend the whole morning admiring your precious little lord.”

She didn’t understand, that it was not about that, and Margaery also did not have it in herself to explain it, let herself be led forward reluctantly instead, only stopping at the window where Sansa pushed open covers that brought chilly air into the room.

It took a moment of getting used to, when they’d been enwrapped by the warmth of the room for the last day.

Initially wanted to protest when Sansa’s hand that disappeared from her waist a moment later, did not know what to make of the step that Sansa took forward or the apprehension in her features.

A short moment later she understood.

They had a perfect view on the width of the North from here, only it was not as peaceful as usually. People lined the streets all the way to Wintertown, and the reason for that was obvious in the distance.

Troops were marching towards Winterfell, more than the bare eye could even estimate.

Margaery took an automatic step back when a screeching filled the air around them and for a moment there the sky seemed to darken. The first shock lasted about a second until a second, and then understanding settled in her mind of what she’d just seen, and she went forward again seeing the two dragons that drew their circles over Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and this is where we take a break. As the story has caught up with season eight, I will wait until the season is over to continue. Let me just say this much: What we've seen so far this season - hell, I cannot wait to throw Margaery in the middle of all that!
> 
> Can I just say that the feedback for the last chapter completely overwhelmed me? I told those of you who commented as much in my replies already, but at this point let me give a great shoutout as well to all the kudos and subscriptions that seemed to skyrocket with that last update. It has been overwhelming and it makes me incredibly happy that all of you enjoy this story! 
> 
> Of course I'm more than eager to hear what you think about this chapter. I know some of you predicted mother hen Margaery, and perhaps you were not completely wrong, I just added a twist to it.


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning here at the beginning: This is going off canon fairly early on in this chapter, earlier than I even expected myself. For the five of you among my readers who enjoyed season eight - sorry.  
> Also a major thanks to the lovely Canary-Corp for giving this a proof reading, because I was to impatient to wait for my beta to look at it.

There was a limited number of occasions where Sansa was consciously aware of the impact it would have on the future. Standing in the courtyard now, she was direly aware of the importance of this very moment. Of the impact it could have not only on her and her family, but all of Winterfell, the entire North - maybe even beyond that.

Yet, Sansa’s head was not where it was supposed to be. It was the worst possible occasion for her to be this distracted. She needed to be present, now more than ever before, and more than just physically. She needed her head in the game, and yet as she stood there, watching more and more people trail through the gates of her home, and her mind barely even registered half of them, missed to even recognize the few familiar faces.

Her mind was focused on one specific face, one she’d left behind only minutes ago, looking as lost as she’d ever seen it.

Leaving Margaery sitting there at the fireplace, nursing the child in her arms, it had felt like she was abandoning her at a time where she needed her most.

She’d done her very best to put on a smile for her today and the day before, to build her up and reassure her, not let on how much her distress ate at her. She’d never seen Margaery like this. So very upset.

Not a single fibre in Sansa’s whole existence had wanted to leave her. Less so when she had understood that leaving her alone was a part of what contributed to her destabilized set of mind.

It was more than the not yet completely dried tears in Margaery’s eyes; after almost a whole day where it had just been them, it felt incredibly hard to return to the real world, and in a way she did not fully until a comforting familiar voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“Lady Sansa.”

A deep and sincere sense of security rose within Sansa’s chest in the moment she focused her eyes on Brienne, who stood opposite of her with broad shoulders and her typical expression of loyalty, of devotion.

Only her cautious distance broke the sense of familiarity, served as a dire reminder of just how unpleasant their last encounter had been, when she’d send Brienne away, despite Brienne’s pleading not to do so, likewise Margaery’s; despite her own desire to keep her around.

Sansa had not enjoyed treating Brienne the way she had, but she -while determined to clear the matter, to clear the air- was not sorry. Refused herself to add remorse to the things swirling and weighing on her mind. It was not something she was proud of, but it had achieved what she had aimed at.

“Brienne.” The first sincere smile, since kissing Margaery goodbye, appeared on her face when she greeted the woman sworn to protect her. “Welcome back. It is good to have you return safely.”

“It is good to be back,” Brienne returned. “Even more so to discover you well.”

With the words her eyes darted ever so discreetly through the small crowd that had gathered in the courtyard and Sansa perceived what,  _ who, _ she was looking for.

She almost wanted to laugh at the thought of Littlefinger. He would have enjoyed being present for this for sure, would have loved the chance to pay his respects -if you wanted to call it that- to the Dragon Queen, while his mind already drafted first plans on just how to either use her for his own advantage or screw her over.

No doubt he would have loved to stand beside her in this moment, the chance to breath ideas into her ear he wanted to settle in her mind, trying to manipulate the situation and her to his best advantage. Ideally while Margaery would be halfway to King’s Landing.

The amusement froze in her mind when she considered how close he had been to that, and what a turn for the worse matters might have taken, how things might have ended up if his plans had gone through. The dire thought of how little Margaery’s chances of surviving would have been had she been forced to give birth somewhere along the King’s Road; without the comfort that Sansa had been able to provide her with, without Gilly to save her life.  

“We managed,” Sansa offered pulling herself from the dark thought. “Granted not always entirely smoothly, but in a well enough collaboration that brought those who posed a danger to us to justice.”

Eyes forwent their searching and landed on Sansa in an instant, surprise evident in them, her voice appropriately low as she spoke.

“Lord Baelish?”

Sansa nodded. “Awaiting judgement in one of our cells.”

Brienne’s expression shifted to the hint of a smile and then into sincere admiration and pride.

“I’m sorry if before I left it appeared like I wasn’t-“ Brienne shook her head breaking off voicing her doubts. “I always knew I could trust your judgement.”

Sansa just offered a small smile, spared the statement that this had appeared a lot different in their last conversation. In the end she understood that this had not been true doubt in her, or her abilities, but merely concern.

“May I ask,” Brienne probed on carefully. “The Lady-“

“Keeping well,” Sansa interrupted swiftly, her tone and the soft insistence in her face enough to let Brienne understand and nod.

She did not want Margaery’s name spoken out loud here, not if she could avoid it. There were too many unfamiliar faces surrounding them, worse even the faintly familiar ones. Anyone could easily attach the correct meaning and conclusion to a mention of her.

Margaery was by no means strong enough yet to be faced with that. Some of the most powerful and important people in the world were about to appear within the walls of Winterfell today and they would learn of her survival soon enough, would bother her soon enough.

Sansa had no illusions that it was something that was inevitable, too many people in Winterfell already knew about who the woman who had alarmed half the castle with her screams of pain a day ago was, but that would not stop Sansa from stalling the moment the remaining people found out for as long as possible.

Especially in regards to their new queen.

Until she had at least a vague idea of the person she was dealing with, she shield Margaery and her son from her presence as rigorously as feasible.

In the limited possibilities she had to ease all that was on Margaery’s mind, this was fairly easy. She could not isolate her indefinitely, but in Margaery’s current state, the Dragon Queen would not step a foot in her direction.

“You should go see her,” Sansa added a moment later, the vague hope in her mind that perhaps Brienne’s presence would help soothe Margaery’s state of mind. “I am sure she will be happy to see you.”

With Brienne settling behind her, Sansa once again tried to focus her thoughts on why she was here in the first place.

The trail of soldiers and people streaming into the courtyard seemed endless, and on top of that Sansa understood that it was only a small share that came within the walls of the Castle in the first place, the larger majority was outside, setting up camp. She had tried to gather the numbers from the window of Margaery’s chamber already, and then one more time on the balustrade overlooking Wintertown. The number she estimated had her head swimming. Unsure if Winterfell’s walls would even manage to hold all these people if it came to it. In case of unforeseen circumstances, alone the weather worsening they would swamp them and she hated to admit even to herself that this scared her.

“She’s showing off.”

Sansa’s head darted to her right, she had not noticed her sister’s appearance next to her, unsure if that was due to her sister’s ability to sneaking up on people or her own distraction.

“Most of her army is on the outskirts,” Bran added for consideration from Sansa’s left.

“Exactly,” Arya returned letting her eyes ghost over the amount of men in dark uniforms surrounding them. “And she could have left the rest there too, no need to present them to us.”

Sansa composed her posture and directed her head forward with a small smile to her lips, more glad for Arya’s presence than she could ever put into words.

“You’re late,” she chided softly.

“I did not want to come,” Arya relented, causing Sansa gave her an intrigued side glance. Arya merely raised her eyebrows and shrugged.

She did not need to say it for Sansa to understand perfectly. That Arya of all people was here for her sake, to offer her support, it left Sansa more affected than she cared to admit, and she had to direct her eyes back forward. For a moment there uncertain of her own composure.

“How is she?” Arya asked her eyes trained forward, her voice hushed.

“Exhausted,” Sansa answered after a moment of contemplation. “But back on her feet.”

“And you?”

Better once I can return to her, Sansa thought.

“I am fine,” she said.

A certain stillness that was suddenly enwrapping the courtyard managed to draw Sansa’s attention away from her sister and instead had her focusing on the two horses riding through the South gate, bringing the main attraction of the whole ordeal right towards them.

For a moment then, Sansa felt strangely reminded to a moment just like this, years ago. Before everything had gone to hell, when she had stood in the courtyard amidst her entire family, as barely more than an innocent child; anticipating the arrival of another monarch.

Only the emotions that came with this were entirely different.

In the days leading up to King Robert’s arrival Sansa had been so very excited, had spoken of nothing else but the king, the queen, the princes and the princess, the feast they were holding in their honour, the dress she had made herself for the occasion, the way she wanted her hair braided; the glory and splendour the royal families arrival would bring to their home.

She remembered how tense her parents, especially her mother had been prior to it; perhaps in nearly the same way she felt now. For certain her parents had no way of knowing just how dire the consequences of the regal visit would be for them, but she was sure they had known that it would have an impact, had known that for better or for worse things would not be the same from here on out.

It was how Sansa felt now.

She would not dare to go so far and claim that matters had been running very smoothly as of late, but there had been a certain calmness – a calm before the storm? – enwrapping them in those previous days, especially the last one.

In all the things that this visit could change, in so many more important matters, the idea that it could have an impact on anything relating to Margaery was what frightened her the most.

Jon was the first one off his horse, and for a moment he just stood there, looking at his three siblings standing in front of him. Despite herself, despite needing to represent composure, Sansa felt her throat close up just then. They were what was left of their family, and the four of them standing here, while a dreadful reminder to all they had lost and suffered, still brought a sense of unbelievable relief to her, because they had survived, and they were home.

It was hard to estimate who had lunged at whom, but Jon had barely made it more than a couple of steps towards them when Arya was already in his arms and he lifted her a good foot of the ground, holding her tightly, and Sansa had to swallow tears at watching it.

She had always known the bond her siblings shared was deep, ran a lot deeper than her own with either of them, but seeing the way they clung to each other it seemed like the both of them only just remembered how much they loved and missed each other. The envy that she’d almost expected at this display of affection never came; because it was petty and it didn’t matter.

She shared a small smile with Arya, after Jon had released her, saw tears shining in her eyes that she had not thought her sister capable of anymore.

The joy of the moment was only a little dimmed when she watched Jon embrace Bran tightly. Jon seemed so genuinely happy to see their little brother, whom he’d thought to have lost years ago, and he would have yet to discover that in a way he still had.

When Jon closed his arms around her and the familiar smell of him enwrapped her, for a short moment Sansa felt any confused feelings, any anger she had harboured against him -against his decision- disappear into thin air. Being held by him emitted a security and safety whether she wanted to or not, and just for a moment a bit of weight felt lifted off her shoulders. She let herself be held by him for a moment that she wished would last longer, closed her eyes and just enjoyed having him back home safely. Had they not been in the middle of the courtyard, watched by dozens of eyes, perhaps she would have allowed the tears to spill over that threatened to gather in hers.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw one specific pair of eyes watching them that forbid her from doing so; served as a reminder likewise of why she could not just allow her anger or disappointment to disappear.

There was no doubt who the woman watching the reunion of the Stark siblings was. Even if was not for her long silver hair, she held something about her, in her stance, in her expression that Sansa could describe as nothing short of sovereign. And yet, or maybe because of it, she looked quite out of place in all this turmoil. Maybe even a little bit uncomfortable? Still the gentle smile that appeared on her face, when she caught Sansa’s eyes on her, seemed genuine.

So this was the famous Dragon Queen, breaker of chains, unburnt and whatever else she called herself.

Sansa could not tell if she was what she had expected, mainly because while her mind had been swirling about nothing but this encounter and everything surrounding it for the past weeks, she had given the actual person, the woman she would meet, very little concern.

She was pretty, that much had been transported even when she’d still reigned across the narrow sea, and yes, the stories did her justice. She also carried something about herself, something regal, something that demanded obeisance, held a certain attitude about herself that did not demand words; was also very composed for spending the last fortnight on horseback.

In a way she held a natural grace to herself that was all too familiar to Sansa. It reminded her of Margaery, only this queen lacked the genuine warmth Margaery so casually emitted.

The Targaryen Queen approached them, and if she felt any hesitance still, she concealed it perfectly.

Sansa was alarmingly well aware of all the eyes that rested on them just then, and how every single of her actions, looks and words would be dissected by those around them.

Jon introduced her formerly to his three siblings and the woman stood on his right smiling at the three of them.

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark,” the queen addressed her first, greeted her and her smile seemed honest just then. “The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you.”

Sansa blinked at the words. The face looking at her was friendly, as were the words, only… they lacked substance, seemed almost inappropriate. This was not them being formerly introduced at court. She was here perhaps as an ally, but also very much as an invader in Sansa’s eyes. Complementing her home, her looks - it did very little to let Sansa forget just that.

“Welcome to Winterfell, your grace.”

It was Arya who had said the words, drawing the queens attention away from Sansa and to herself.

The look that Arya reserved for her was no less formal than Sansa’s, only -if even possible- a lot more reserved. Earning Arya’s trust was, as Sansa knew from all too recent experience, nothing that went very easy. Until someone was not a trusted ally in Arya’s eyes, they were the enemy.

The queen’s smile did not waver even at the cool greeting, the same smile she had granted Sansa still in place. “I was really looking forward to finally meet you. Your brother has told me so much about you.”

“Welcome, your grace,” Sansa offered then too, finding her voice at last. 

Despite her immense reluctance, the title slipped easier of her tongue than she would have ever expected. But then again, what else was she supposed to call her? It was certainly not appropriate to just address her with her first name. And adding a “Lady” to her name seemed to be the worst of all alternatives.

Sansa was robbed of the chance to say anything more, when Jon, perhaps prudent of both his sisters’ behaviour, and on what shaky ground their politeness stood, turned the queen’s focus to Bran.

It was ironic that out of the three of them Bran, who had advocated most for Jon’s decision of bending the knee within the last weeks, seemed to startle the queen without even trying to do so, just by looking at her, for the first time at his very curt greeting of her, her smile faltered the tiniest bit.

For a moment thereafter they stood across from each other and the certain tension had Sansa recall her manners and she offered a reserved smile. “We are glad you made it here safely, your grace.”

“As am I,” the Targaryen Queen returned. Was there a hint of relief at Sansa’s amicable behaviour? “I have to admit the cold is affecting me a lot more than I would like to admit.”

“It has that effect on people who are not used to it,” Sansa noted. “I assume this was the reason for your speedy journey? We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“Actually it was your brother who insisted on that,” her eyes darted to Jon, “he was so eager to get home, he convinced me to skip our rest at House Cerwyn.”

Or was he just reasonable enough to know that they were not wanted there?

Sansa shot Jon a short look, he stood silently next to them as if he was waiting for and prepared to step into any kind escalation.

“I can see how those travels must have been straining,” Sansa offered with her hands folded in front of her. “I expect you will appreciate the chance to withdraw for a while? We’ve had chambers prepared and warmed up for you.” She threw a look over her shoulder indicating for the steward to come forward. “If it pleases you our steward will show you and your people to them.”

Those words rolled a lot easier of her lips than the initial greeting. Being courteous, being a good hostess was what she thrived at. “We can gather for luncheon at noon. It will give us the chance to gather in a small round. Most of the Lords and Ladies of the North will only turn up as the day progresses.”

It was nearly amusing how very surprised Jon looked at her politeness.

She only hoped he did not read too much into it, did not expect too much because of it. Courtesy and politeness was one thing, but she did not have the amount of dishonesty in herself that would be required in order to make it appear that she was most welcome here, not when that was very far from the truth.

“I appreciate your hospitality,” the queen was still smiling, so joyfully just then, it left Sansa a bit irritated.

Their first steward accompanied the Dragon Queen at a simple nod of Sansa and, without further indication from her, the other ready servants followed suit and saw to it that the not so small encourage were taken care of and accompanied to rooms prepared for them as well.

Sansa watched from the gallery how the first surge of their guests were disappearing from the courtyard into the keep and to the guest house. She had instructed her people well and prepared everything in excruciating detail and was assured that things would run smoothly enough. Still however the train of people coming through the gate had not stopped.

“You were very attentive to our queen just now,” Arya noted, appearing next to her.

Sansa sighed and turned to her sister, trying to read whether she wanted to test her or was merely admiring her false courtesy. Maybe it was a bit of both.

“Small civilities go a long way,” Sansa returned with a sigh.

Arya watched the busy swarming in the courtyard without an answer.

“There is a time and place for everything,” Sansa added in a quiet tone, disliking the feeling of having to speak in a hushed tone in her own home. “One of the biggest armies Westeros has ever seen is standing outside our gates, along with two dragons. We will have time for honesty later.”

With the hint of a smile Arya looked at her then. “Very diplomatic of you. As usual.”

“I have had my fair share of arranged marriages,” Sansa explained. “I know what is expected and how to behave.”

Arya looked all too intrigued at the comparison. “Most importantly, you know how to leave them behind.”

In a pure coincidence, her eyes landed on Tyrion Lannister just then who was getting out of a carriage on the other side of the courtyard.

“I certainly do,” Sansa returned and Arya followed her line of sight.

He looked exactly like she remembered him; the beard was new and took some of the boyish, mischievous quality off his appearance.  In all of her unfortunate betrothals he was someone she could genuinely say that she trusted, someone who had always been kind to her and yet seeing him here now, his eyes settling on her after a first moment of scanning his surroundings she felt nervous all the sudden. Could not help but wonder, even as she offered him a small bow of her head in greeting, that he returned, how he would feel about the new addition to his family he’d learn about sooner or later. She wondered if that had crossed Margaery’s mind at all, if it was something that bothered her, added to her troubles perhaps.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Sansa said then, tearing her eyes from the man still looking at them, back to her sister. “I will withdraw until luncheon.”

“I am not attending that,” Arya clarified, when Sansa had already turned to leave. “I’ve used up all my courteous spirits for today.”

Sansa would have liked to have Arya by her side, but she also knew to pick her battles with her and so she gave a nod of her head. “Thank you for being here for this.”

“You are not welcome,” Arya clarified with a small smile. “This was all too dull. A Dragon Queen and no dragon in sight. Disappointing really.”

Sansa returned the smile her sister was giving her, watching Arya turn around after halfway off into the opposite direction.

“Give my regards to your personal guest, will you?”

Sansa smiled a little at the last words and then carried off into the direction of where Arya so rightfully suspected she would withdraw to. Even if the Dragon Queen would end up in servant chambers by accident, nothing could stop her on the path she was on now. Her first official duty of the day was done and in the little time she had before her next, there was only one place where she wanted and needed to be.

It relieved her a bit that Margaery had moved from where she’d left her.

She sat on the windowsill, like on so many occasions before, only instead of the usual book or sewing occupying her hands, one of them lay tightly clasped in her lap, the other was on the edge of the cradle that she had moved next to her. She was looking outside watching the camp for thousands of soldiers being built up on the other side of the battlements.

When she noticed Sansa’s presence, she managed one of those small smiles that didn’t reach her eyes; looking still so pale, so tired, even though she had put on proper clothes and even braided her hair, her exhaustion was still palpable in everything.

Sansa reminded herself not to expect miracles just yet; Margaery had been on the verge of dying barley more than a day ago and no one who’d just been through that would be back to their former strength just yet.

She stood next to Margaery and put an arm around her shoulder, needing to touch her, needing to feel that she was still there, it was something she could not stop herself from, not with how close she’d been to—No.

Sansa smiled and the thought vanished almost altogether, when Margaery’s head fell against her stomach and she leaned into her.

“What is she like?”

Sansa shrugged and her eyes travelled outside. “We have not spoken yet more than a handful of words.”

Tired, but knowing eyes looked up at her. “You mean you have not yet decided whether to actively or secretly dislike her?”

“I will need to speak with Jon first.”

“To be able to have an opinion of her?”

“To determine how important her alliance really is,” Sansa corrected. “We will share luncheon later, I’m sure I will be able to get a better impression of her then.”

Margaery didn’t reply anything and upon looking down Sansa saw that she had her eyes closed, still resting against her.

The sight of Margaery still upset her. Not once had she seen her so exhausted and it could be normal and expected a million times, it still concerned her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like a gutted fish.” Eyes stayed closed throughout the reply.

The heaviness of her choice of words had Sansa’s eyebrows draw up and squeezed her shoulder gently.

“You should not be up if you do not feel up to it yet. You should rest.”

It took her a moment, but Margaery opened her eyes then and disappeared from where she leaned against her, sitting up straight, as if she desperately needed to project strength - at which she failed miserably. Her shoulders did not have their usual posture, not even to mention the tired look on her face.

“No,” she sighed. “You were right, all this rest is not good for me.”

“Overstraining yourself isn’t either,” Sansa pointed out.

“You don’t gain strength by sleeping all day,” her words held none of the usual fierceness she brought to an argument.

“You do actually,” Sansa gave back in a softly berating manner. She cupped the side of Margaery’s face and tilted her head to look up at her. “Take it one day at a time. Please?”

“I’ll rest after luncheon, I promise.”

The satisfaction that the words brought along only lasted a moment, then she realized what exactly Margaery had said there.

“You want to attend the luncheon?”

With not only the Dragon Queen, but several of her encourage present?

“You don’t think I should be.”

It was not a question, more a defeated statement.

“No. I don’t.”

With a simple nod and only after a very short moment of contemplation Margaery rested back against the wall, her eyes trained outside once again.

It startled Sansa. It was not like she wanted her to debate, or to put up a fight, but under other circumstances Margaery would have been appalled that Sansa just made a decision for her, would have not sat back silently and meek. It was just another reminder that  _ her _ Margaery had not returned yet.

Sansa sat down opposite to her and reached for her hand. “Why do you even want to go in the first place?”

Margaery shrugged. “It will only be a question of time until they learn of my presence here, and I thought it would be better if that happened on my terms.”

That didn’t even sound like she truly wanted to go, Sansa thought, or at least not for the reasons she would have predicted under different circumstances. It was dire anticipation, not curiosity or even strategy.

“No one needs to learn of your presence until you want it and are ready,” Sansa promised giving her fingers a comforting squeeze.

Margaery’s face looked tired and unconvinced. “And you don’t assume that ship has sailed? You honestly expect that the Master of Whispers does not already know?”

A valid point, of course. They were past secrecy.

Still, Sansa was determined to ease her mind. “Let me rephrase,” she said and tightened her hold. “No one will bother you until you are ready. No queen, no lord, no soul. I promise you that.

It ached to see tears shining in Margaery’s eyes once again. Sansa could tell that something pained her, and she couldn’t determine what it was, perhaps it was too much even for Margaery to elaborate, perhaps because right now there was nothing in her power to help her.

“That’ll only prolong the inevitable,” Margaery’s voice was shaky, a little hoarse.

“What are you so afraid of?” Sansa probed carefully.

“I don’t know.” With the response a first tear rolled down her cheek.

Sansa didn’t know whether or not to believe that still. Maybe she really didn’t know, or maybe she was afraid to even speak it out loud.

“It’s something that I can’t put on one simple logical reason,” Margaery took a deep breath that helped her regain some composure. “Look at me. I’m not myself and I don’t know how to get myself back from this weak mess I have turned into.”

It broke Sansa’s heart to see her like this, bashfully looking down, avoiding her eyes, swallowing tears again and again. In her fight to be strong so badly, she was tearing down her very last resources.

“It is alright to be weak once in a while,” Sansa said softly and cupped her cheek. “You have been nothing, but strong for so long.”

“Only I can’t,” Margaery croaked the words out, sniffing and wiping at her eyes. “I can’t be weak when I have to take care of him.”

Sansa took a look to the side where the boy slept perfectly peaceful, so very unaware of how upset his mother was just then. For his sake she did wish as well that Margaery would not overstain herself yet. He deserved to have the mother she knew that Margaery could be, the one who was all gentle smiles, soft words, who was so warm and affectionate.

“You are taking care of him,” Sansa reminded. “You’re feeding him, you’re rocking him to sleep… You’re so deeply concerned only about him, you won’t let go of his cradle, even when there’s nothing to be worried about.”

“I can’t protect him.”

Sansa wanted to point out that there was nothing to protect him of, but that lie would not come past her lips. Of course there was. A million things. But that was not because of who they were, or where he had been born, not because of Dragon Queens or all too informed eunuchs. He was an innocent babe, completely depended on Margaery. Of course that was scary, it was something entirely normal.

Only telling Margaery that would not have helped her a great deal right now.

“I can,” she promised instead. “I can and will protect the both of you.”

At least this time around Margaery didn’t argue. Sansa felt that was a small improvement. She arched her head up to press a soft kiss against Margaery’s forehead, and then she pulled her against her, so that the side of her face was resting just above Sansa’s heart.

“I’ve got you, both of you,” she said, running hands through curly hair, taking the moment in which Margaery melted into her touch, and closed her eyes, to consider how to make good of that promise exactly. No matter how much she wanted, she couldn’t be around all the time, not right now… was nearly supposed to be on her way again already in this moment.

Sansa pulled back then, her hands on either sides of Margaery’s face and looked into her still glassy eyes.

“Once the luncheon has started, I’ll send for the steward to move you back into my chambers, and we will see to it that one of my most trusted men is stationed at the door at all times,” she spoke slow and calm, wanted to make sure that Margaery understood what she was saying.

No one would dare to step a foot inside her chamber, without her knowledge and her approval. Apart from hiding Margaery away in the crypts, it was their safest option.

Margaery looked up at her with the same misery. “It’ll bring up too many questions. People will wonder why--”

“Because you are still recovering from a tremendous strain,” Sansa interrupted, not having any of it. “And my chambers are the warmest in the whole keep.”

Margaery’s concern was a valid one, she knew that; was not delusional. Questions would arise sooner or later about the closeness of their friendship, likely not the most pleasant ones, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. For now she was sure that they had other more pressing matters at their hand, than whom she shared a bed with. It was not entirely rejoicing, but it was something.

She shook her head still. “I can’t ask you--”

“You’re not asking,” Sansa clarified. “And neither am I. This is an order.”

Again Margaery accepted her words, her judgement after only a very small moment of contemplation. And again, it was not like Sansa wanted her to argue with her, only … she just wanted  _ her _ Margaery back. The one where such measures would not be necessary in the first place, who would have stood by her side today in the courtyard, greeting and charming the Queen, and spewing a witty biting remark in the moment she turned her back. She wished that Margaery could come along to the luncheon, because no one mastered situations just like that as she did, made conversation that appeared like small talk and was so much more than that without the opposite realizing it.

It was selfish, Sansa reminded herself. Margaery needed time and she would give it to her as she had promised.

The kiss she placed against Margaery’s lips was supposed to be sweet and short, calming and reassuring, which was why Sansa was surprised when a hand appeared at the back of her neck, stopping her from pulling back.

She did not know what brought on the fierceness and the urge in which lips opened and a tongue begged entrance into her mouth, and she didn’t question it. She was ready to give Margaery this and so much more if she needed it, if it would make her feel better if only for just a moment.

The kiss did not lack its usual tenderness, despite the hint of desperation that was palpable with every brush of her lips, with every stroke of her tongue against her own. And despite the worry and the sorrow she still harboured for Margaery she reacted to her touch almost by default. Her body reacted to not only the what lips were doing, but also to the closeness, to the way Margaery seemed to curve her whole body into her, the way her fingers caressed the nape of her neck. There was a certain warmth that spread out through her body.

They had not kissed like this since that morning in Sansa’s chambers, and then Margaery leading her hands to her pregnant stomach had prevented Sansa feeling anything beyond that rush of the moment that had left her dizzy; now however the longer it went on, the more she felt that craving for Margaery grow, felt that even kisses that held all the intensity she could imagine did not seem quite like enough anymore. Something, settled at the pit of her stomach; something she had not felt before. Similar to being nervous, to being afraid, something that made her want to squirm… but good, pleasant.

It was something that did not feel appropriate right now, not when Margaery was this upset and Sansa finally pulled away gently. At least there was a bit of clarity, of calmness that had returned to Margaery’s look, even if it was just the same certain daze that Sansa still felt too but it didn’t matter. A short moment of serenity was better than nothing.

“Better?” Sansa asked gently, still holding her face between her hands.

The smile that Margaery gave her was small, but it felt genuine, not just for the sake of easing Sansa’s mind. “Maybe a little.”

Sansa leaned in for another peck against her slightly swollen lips, when she withdrew she caressed her cheek.

“If you really want to join the luncheon I won’t stop you,” Sansa said what she felt she still needed to express. “I would love to have you by my side, more than you know, but more than that I need you to regain your strength.”

“I will rest,” Margaery nodded at last. “I am still very tired… and sore.”

Sansa nodded sympathetically and noted silently that she was sitting on the stony windowsill without as much as a piece of fur beneath her. Recalling the birth, what her body had been put through … Sansa had no comprehension how she sat upright at all. She took Margaery’s hands and softly urged her to stand.

“Off to bed with you then,” she ordered with an encouraging smile. “The sooner the sleep, the sooner you will feel better.”

Margaery came to a stand, but looked doubtful. “I am not sure it works like that, sweet girl.”

Sansa stood before her for a flash and smiled, when fingers tangled with her own, she brought her lips to Margaery’s for a brief kiss.

“I have missed that,” she said against Margery’s lips. “You calling me that.”

“I missed calling you that.”

For the short moment Sansa forgot all of the concern she still harboured for Margaery, it almost felt like she had her back then, even if just for that length of a heartbeat.

Knowing not to push her luck, Sansa tugged softly on Margaery’s hands and brought her to sit down on the bed and after a bit of flinching bring her legs up on the bed and lie on top of the covers. She noticed Margaery’s eyes darting towards where the cradle stood and without needing a prompting or a single word she stood up and rolled the cradle on small wooden wheels to the side of the bed, shaking her head with a smile at the way Margaery’s hand was right back on its edge and she peered at her sleeping son.

Sansa forbid herself the instinct to reach out and brush a hand across his head. Never wake sleeping babies, was a rule she remembered from when Rickon had been an infant. She had seen him as a doll back then that was hers to play with and had upset her mother more than once by waking him when she was not supposed to.

Waking the little Lord when she wanted Margaery to be sleeping was an altogether horrible idea. Later on, she promised herself, she’d get to hold him later. She placed her hand onto of Margaery’s where it held onto the cradle.

“I’ll try not to be too late tonight,” she promised, even while already anticipating that she would not be able to make good of that promise. “But I’m afraid you will have to dine without me.”

Margaery did not seem too happy at the perspective, but nodded still.

“Brienne asked about you, by the way,” the memory just then occurred to her mind. “If you want some company perhaps she could join you for supper.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Margaery returned turning to her side, an arm beneath her head. “I think you were right with me needing to rest for today.”

“All right. I’ll send for the steward in a little while, you rest until then.”

Sansa watched as she closed her eyes. Little more than a day ago she had sat with her like this, afraid to the core that she might lose her, and even if it did not completely feel like she had her back altogether, she had not lost her, she was still here, still breathing, her skin warm under Sansa’s touch. The rest would fall into place eventually.

She leaned down and placed lips against her cheek for a lingering kiss.

“I love you,” Sansa said quietly.

Her breath stuck in her throat when eyes blinked back open and looked at her. Margaery’s head turned and her eyes found Sansa’s. Sansa did not think she had ever seen so many emotions reflected in them.

She had not meant to say that out loud, even when she meant the words with all her heart. At Margaery’s stunned expression she could only offer her a shrug and a smile. This was not how this was supposed to go. She had not meant for those three words to slip past her lips, had not expected, nor planned it, and yet she realized in the very same moment that she had never meant anything as much in her life.

This time Margaery’s eyes filling with tears did not fill her with sorrow, because they came along with a beautiful smile.

“I love you,” Sansa repeated, her smile matching Margaery’s when she rested her forehead against hers. “So much.”

“I love you, too,” Margaery returned and yet another time this day tears slipped from her eyes. “So much it frightens me sometimes.”

They did not kiss this time around, just kept their foreheads pressed together, smiling at each other for the longest time.

It was the first time Sansa had said the words to someone she felt so overwhelmingly much for, it consumed her. When she was younger she had imagined a declaration of love so much different, more like described like in all of those romantic tales, as a grand ending to a grand love story, in a sweeping someone of their feet great gesture.

This was nothing like that.

They were nowhere close to the end of their story, caught somewhere in the middle instead, in an all to random moment and most likely that was what made it all that much more special. What they felt for each other, what they meant to each other, did not consist of those grand moments, not solely at least. Her love for Margaery did not cling to any of those defining moments in their relationship, but about a thousand small ones every day.

“Rest now,” Sansa pleaded, her thumb brushing away the remains of a single tear. “I promise I will be back as fast as I can.”

The sense of content, of happiness rooted in her chest did not fit the occasion that was awaiting her in the Great Hall. When she had thought her concern for Margaery had her distracted this morning, the deeply rooted affection that was sitting in her chest did not produce it a great deal better.

Only a sense of appropriateness managed to have the soft smile disappear from her lips as she entered the dimly lit venue, where a table way too small for the size of it awaited was set up, the rest of the gathering already present, Sansa the last one to arrive.

“I apologize for the delay,” she announced stepping behind the remaining empty chair between her two brothers, opposite to the Targaryen Queen herself.

“No need to apologize, Lady Sansa. We only just arrived ourselves,” Daenerys stated with another one of those irritatingly friendly smiles. “And I imagine our arrival interrupted an already busy day.”

Sansa offered her a meagre smile and a nod as she sat down at last. “Thank you for your understanding, your grace.”

In the momentary silence that followed Sansa took a brief look over the full and at the same time sparsely set table. They had brought everything she had requested, freshly baked bread, smoked fish and meats, a hot stew, two jugs of spiced wine; by no means a meal set for a queen, certainly not what she was used to any other day.

“I realize this is not much,” Sansa acknowledged gesturing to their meal. “But I hope you’ll find it to your liking still.”

“It is perfect. A meal not eaten on a rocking ship, or a drifty tent is a lot more than we had during most of our journey,” the queen assured. “Thank you for bringing it together on such short notice. I do hope our early arrival did not inconvenience you too much.”

Sansa thought she could still feel her lips tingle from Margaery’s kisses, and would have loved nothing more than to tell the queen just how very much she had inconvenience her really.

“We have been ready for your grace for the past couple of days,” she answered as perfectly as expected of her. “This meagre set up has more to do with our preparation for winter than with being caught by surprise.”

It was almost impudent to put it like this, only almost though, and Sansa made sure to offer the words with a smile.

“A reasonable choice,” Lord Varys declared then from her left, where he sat next to Tyrion who was between him and the queen.

The look Sansa offered him was even tighter than the one for the queen.

_ The Master of Whispers already knows. _

Margaery’s words rung in her head.

She had been too young to remember Lord Varys’ antics and his exact involvement in the politics and intrigues of King’s Landing, but what she knew was enough to harbour a good amount of distrust for him. Someone serving under so many different Kings from different houses, had more than one ace up their sleeve to be still alive.

“Necessary,” Sansa gave back. “We are in the middle of winter, and cannot be having feasts,” her eyes landed on the queen again and she offered an almost sweet smile. “No matter how grand the guests.”

“I see your brother and my lord hand did not promise too much when they talked about your intelligence and foresight.”

Sansa kept her smile firmly and place and forbade herself the need to narrow her eyes. Again with these compliments, that Sansa did not know what to make of. It was almost like she was trying to ingratiate her, like she tried her best to be liked by her?

In a moment feeling all too bold, Sansa decided to test that sentiment. To see how far the queen would allow this to go.

“They are both too kind,” Sansa shot a look in both her brother’s and Tyrion’s direction, then she focused back on her opposite. “If it pleases your grace, I would appreciate the chance to talk to your pantler. I find it only reasonable if we would find a collaboration in keeping our people fed. I assume that will be a lot easier handled from one set of kitchens instead of two separate ones.”

All eyes were drawn to her, even as they continued their meal. Sansa knew that her request was bold, it would have been proper to wait until the queen offered to share whatever stocks they had brought along, but that was exactly the point.

If the queen was startled by the demand she did not show it, was perhaps the only one at the table not looking apprehensive or surprised. Instead she gave Sansa another smile. “I will see that my pantler finds you to discuss the arrangements.”

“I appreciate it. Thank you, your grace.”

Sansa took a sip from her cup of wine, still trying to fit her opposite out. She did not believe for a moment that the softly smiling, courteous exterior she let on was all that there was to her. A woman who had been raised in exile and had come to conquer cities east and west of the narrow sea was not that bland, could not be or she would not be where she was. And that in Sansa’s mind only left the alternative that her courtesies were as forced as Sansa’s. Only the why she had not figured out.

“Any chance we brought some Dornish along with us?” Tyrion grimaced as he set his cup of wine back on the table after taking the first sip. Added when he caught Sansa looking at him with drawn up eyebrows, “No offense, Lady Sansa.”

“Only some taken, my lord,” Sansa returned with the hint of a smirk. “The butcher’s daughters sweeten their wine with honey, perhaps we can arrange the same for you.”

Around the table suppressed smiles appeared, even from the queen who gave her hand a softly chiding look. Tyrion himself did not look happy with the implication of having the taste of a twelve year old girl, but did not seem all that much offended, soft admiration send her way instead.

“You are too kind, my lady,” he bit out.

For a little while only the sounds of cutlery moving against dishes filled the hall, as everyone focused their attention towards their own plates. It was not the most friendly atmosphere Sansa had ever experienced, but by far not as bad as she had anticipated coming here, and certainly not the worst.

Even if the conversation went almost exhaustingly slow and superficial.

Praise for the food, less praise for the wine, comments about the snow and the cold, questions about the travels only lasted them so long before a silence spread over them. 

It was of course Tyrion to speak into the silence and point just that out to everyone. “Aren’t we an entertaining round.” His eyes landed on Sansa once again. “But I’ll allow this, an upgrade from the last meal you and I shared.”

Now Lord Varys chimed in too, a vague smile on his lips that made Sansa want to squirm. “That would have been the wedding feast of Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell?”

Did his eyes linger on her when he said her name? Sansa kept her face perfectly neutral and her eyes focused on Tyrion, for once glad he spoke up.

“Yes. Miserable affair,” he mumbled dryly.

Sansa held his gaze for only a heartbeat longer and then focused them on her plate. She remembered the day as clearly as if it had just happened an hour ago. The ceremony in the Sept of Baelor, the pastries served at the feast, the act that had not amused anyone but Joffrey, the way a hair pin had set uncomfortable on her head for the entire day, the soft silk of her dress.

And Margaery. Nothing as clear as Margaery. The way she had looked, the dress she wore, the way she wore her hair; the look on her face when the cloak had been placed around her shoulders would forever be burned into her mind.

Only one thing she recalled even better. The sound that Joffrey had made. The cough that had developed into a chocking and the feeling that had come with the realization what it meant.

“It had its moments.”

Sansa was more thinking out loud than actively commenting and only realized she did so with the soft chuckle coming from Tyrion, and when her eyes met the genuinely amused expression of the queen.

For a moment she considered the opportunity to bring up Margaery’s presence within Winterfell. The transition to that would have been easy to make. Waiting with that revelation, while she still considered it a reasonable choice, might bring along misinterpretations, misunderstandings, Sansa was aware of that, and yet she could not get the words past her lips. Not with the image of a crying Margaery still rooted so firmly on in her mind.

“A question, my lady,” Lord Varys addressed her then. “We have heard rumours on our way here.”

Sansa’s heart stopped and only cold anticipation had her keep her composure as she looked at him. “What rumours, milord?”

“That you imprisoned Lord Baelish in your dungeons.”

Never before had Sansa been so glad for the mention of Littlefinger’s name, but the relief only lasted momentarily.

Given the choice she would have not brought this up either, because the story of his imprisonment was all too intertwined with Margaery.

“We did,” Sansa confirmed still.

“On what charges?” It was the first time Jon addressed her directly during this meal.

“That ought to be a long list,” Tyrion threw in before bringing the cup to his lips.

Sansa kept her eyes on her brother and lifted her eyebrows. “What do you think?” She left the sentence hang in the air for a moment. “Conspiracy. Treason. Murder.”

“And you have factual proof of that?” Varys asked genuinely curious.

“We do,” Bran spoke up in Sansa’s stead.

“I have heard enough of him to understand the threat he poses,” the Queen weighed in.  “If you have proof of what he did a proper trial should not be too hard to establish.”

Sansa bit her tongue, in order to stay amicable. She knew better than to outright to disagree with the queen, but she still would have liked to make clear that this was not her judgement to make. She didn’t know him and Sansa refused to take the risk of a wrong judgement, one that was not every little bit of what Littlefinger deserved.

Gods only knew how the Queen would react to the letters that were still safely locked away in her desk. Even a false claim that Margaery had interest in the throne brought the possibility of not sit right with her, to pose a thorn in her side.

A baby boy, barely older than a day, fathered by a king, had posed a threat to people with more power than her in the past.

As her thoughts hung on that, she caught Varys eyes on her, then darted to his queen.

“If I may your grace,” he spoke slowly and calculated. “And while I do not appreciate Lord Baelish or his antics as much as the next person, I do believe that this particular judgement sits with House Stark.“

The man’s expression was hard to read and that annoyed Sansa. Reading people was something she had grown fairly good at. The way his expression was open and at the same time did not reveal even a hint more than what he wished to let her know, was another of those reminders that she was, while good at this game, not nearly as good as people who had played it their whole lives.

The queen just looked thoughtful for a moment then, perhaps balancing if this was worth arguing over in the first place.

“Very well,” she said at last, and nodded. “The Warden of the North will make a proper judgement I’m sure.”

Sansa sincerely wanted to offer her a polite smile at the words, wanted to be relieved at the words, but hearing Jon addressed with their father’s former title did not sit right with her, was nothing more than a dire reminder of just what Jon had given up and it left a sour taste in mouth.

“I appreciate that your grace,” Sansa still offered politely.

“You’ll have to elaborate one thing for me though.” For the first time then, the smile the queen had given her the entire time did not appear, instead there was a flash of something else, something like suspicion.

“Your grace?”

“You said you caught him red-handed, what stopped you from bringing him to justice right then? Why wait until your brother returned?”

Sansa weighed her answer, deciding quickly that the argument of not losing the Vale’s support was not the best to give to someone who expected to have entire seven kingdoms bowing to her.

“I find impulse a poor advisor,” Sansa returned in icily calculated words. “I found it is much better to consider carefully before making a judgement.”

The queen looked at her for a long and silent moment, and Sansa honestly couldn’t gather if it was admiration or challenge that moved itself into her eyes, while her smile remained ever so friendly.

In the afternoon, the formal introduction of Daenerys Targaryen to the leaders of the North followed and it went about as bad as Sansa had expected. The amount of tension within the great hall was suffocating.

Everything seemed to serve as a possible source of offense for someone. Starting with the seating arrangements in which some of the Northern Lords took offense that a foreign queen and a Lannister got seats of honour which were normally reserved for themselves. It took a lot of Sansa’s diplomacy, as well as several pitchers of strong wine to diffuse that first situation.

Jon apparently had thought that him travelling and arriving with the queen would be enough to deflect and make them accept that he had surrendered the North, but Sansa could have easily told him, that none of them were quite as simply conceived. The next days would be straining for all of them. And she dearly hoped that either Daenerys Targaryen or Jon had some good and convincing arguments prepared for the northern people, more so than the speech Jon had offered today. 

Throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening, Sansa hardly ever sat down for longer than a couple of minutes. She saw to having the Northern Lords entertained, sat with them, made Jon sit with them in order to soothe their mood. Every now and then she talked to the maids who prepared the chambers for their guests, answered questions they had and saw to it that everyone was accommodated properly. She went back and forth toward the kitchen staff and helped solve issues that came with despite them being so well prepared for the large amount of guests.  

She was in her element, yes. This was what she was good at. But it also drained her and as soon as the first people had finished their meal and poured out of the great hall towards their chambers, she also slipped outside, hoping to make it back to her chamber, back to Margaery, at last.

No doubt she would already have settled for the night, and while she looked forward to holding her sleeping form in her arms, she would have preferred to get some more awake hours with her.

Sansa had chosen the way over the balustrade back to her chamber and lingered in the fresh air for a moment to clear her mind, in order to not return to Margaery with all that weighed on her mind; that was when Jon caught up with her.

For a short while they just stood next to each other overlooking the North.

“Thank you for today,” he opened at last. “I realize you are not happy with Daenerys being here, I appreciate you being so courteous still.”

Sansa remained silent, glad that he was at least not as oblivious to her sentiments was she thought he was.

“And thank you for all the work you have done,” he continued. “Not just today. I knew when I left that the North was safe in your hands. But you exceed even my greatest expectations.”

Sansa was too tired to act on that spur of anger she felt in her chest. Yes, she had taken great care of the North. Bloody fantastic.  Had exceeded and thrived at it… Just for him to give it away and surrender everything they had fought so hard for.

Had he found her a couple of hours earlier perhaps she would have found it in herself to yell all of that in his face. Now instead she slung her arms around him and focused on what really mattered in this very moment.

“I’m very glad that you came back,” she told him. “I missed you.”

“Are you doing well, Sansa?” He held her tightly and she could hear the deep concern in his voice. “You look tired.”

“It was a long day,” she told him. A long couple of days. She was glad not to have to look at him, and she only tightened her arms around him and suddenly the same tears that had threatened to rise in her eyes this morning were back.

Jon pulled back to take a look at her face and the concern in his eyes made her feel so very well taken care of. “Tell me what happened while I was away?”

She pulled back from there embrace and shook her head. “There is so much I ought to discuss with you,” she said wearily. “But nothing that cannot wait until tomorrow.”

The content she hoped for when entering her chambers failed to set in when she found them empty in the light of the fireplace. Instead of finding a sleeping Margaery in her bed like she had hoped, there was no sign of her even being in her chamber.

Realization had a small smile spread across her face when she realized why that was and she opened the adjoining door quietly, her smile broadening at the sight of a still fully dressed Margaery sleeping soundly on top of the covers, one hand still wound around the edge of the crib.

Of course she had done the sensible thing and not dared to be caught directly in Sansa’s chambers, in her bed. Sansa would see to it tomorrow that she forgot about this false placed caution.

For a moment she considered waking her and leading her to her own bed, but eventually ruled against it. Likewise withstood the urge to sit with her and brush hair that had fallen into her forehead back. She remembered her exhaustion and her tears to vividly still; Margaery deserved some uninterrupted hours of sleep. So instead Sansa pulled a blanket around her, watching with a smile how she almost instantly curled into them tightly.

Her second look went to the cradle, where eyes that should not have been quite so attentive yet, looked up at her as if they recognized her perfectly already. With the boy she only hesitated for a short moment before gathering him in her arms.

After a short moment of carrying him through the room, she settled in a chair by the fire and could not help the smile that spread over her face as she looked at him.

He was the spitting image of his mother.

The resemblance to Loras that Margaery had pointed out surely was unmistakable, but even more so, even stronger she saw her in him. So undeniably, so overwhelmingly.

Sansa pressed her lips against the child’s forehead and breathed in his scent.

Her prediction, her anticipation she had made when Margaery had still been pregnant was completely right. She could feel nothing but love for the boy. It did not matter who he was related to, no matter that he held relation to Cersei Lannister herself. He was Margaery’s son first and foremost and that left her no chance, but to adore him.

Holding him now, feeling his tiny body in her arms, the way he seemed to weigh next to nothing, she understood Margaery’s apprehension when it came to him and to protect him a bit better.

So far Sansa could protect the both of them with very little effort, hide them from anyone who could pose a danger. And that was not only for Margaery’s sake.

The moment would come when the Targaryen Queen would learn of both Margaery’s survival and the existence of her son.

She wanted to trust Jon’s judgement of his Dragon Queen. Had seen her for the most part as a reasonable person and ruler today; but she’d also seen the tight expression on her face when the Northern Lords had not been as amicable as she would have liked them.

Sansa had seen people do unspeakable things when feeling threatened before. And to someone who seemed so set on being received with love by her people, what was a greater threat than the most beloved queen rising from the dead, with an -albeit questionably- rightful heir in her arms?

She better be the wise queen that Jon predicted her to be then, because Sansa could perhaps swallow the lost independence of the North -for now, for the right reasons and given no other choice- but all bets and all courtesies would be off should she, or anyone of her encourage, pose a threat to either Margaery or her son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo...? What do you think? 
> 
> For some of the changes I made to what happened in canon... I tried my very best to play the arrival scene as it did on the show, but, despite my best efforts, could not get behind the reasons for Sansa's behavior. At least not in this universe, with this version of her. And then I stopped trying to make sense of D&D's writing, did my own thing and suddenly it worked.  
> For now I have settled on finding a compromise between my own early draft of this story and a few cherry-picked scenes from canon. We will see how that goes.  
> I also tried myself at an outline, of which I have gone off script within 2000 words, but I am roughly aiming at about 45 chapters plus epilogue for this story. Also here, we will have to see how that goes.  
> A lovely sunday evening and a nice week ahead to all of you lovely people!


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

After the wildfire there had been moments when Margaery had wondered if surviving was worth it; if living was worth it, if _this_ was it.

In those endless days where consciousness had finally caught up with her and had refused to let go of her again, where she had  lay there, too weak, too broken, to lift a hand or keep her eyes open, and had done nothing all day and night long, had not been capable of more, but keeping track on where and how her body hurt.

It had hurt everywhere, horridly so, like her skin had been scraped off the flesh, leaving her raw to everything surrounding her.

Only the intensity varied, that had given her the only indication of how bad her injuries were, where they were healing, in which parts they were getting worse.

She had done it whenever she was awake. Trying to figure out what part of her body she could move, where her muscles were particularly weak and where they were growing stronger. It’s a game that kept her mind busy but drove her crazy at the same time.

Thighs – a little better than the rest, but still in the top scale with the pain. Torso – only really bad on the upper part of her chest. Face – only slightly worse than her upper legs, but not so bad on her skull. Not even close to endurable on her back.

That had been all her thoughts spun around for days, maybe even weeks, only sometimes interrupted by some milk of the poppy being dripped onto parched lips, but even then never quite ceasing.

Her mind had been painfully active then, never wavering, always thinking, contemplating, planning, assessing. Trying to keep her spirits up, refusing to give into the lethargy that wanted to overcome her ever so often.

It had been her maimed body that had not behaved as it should have.

Now, in the almost two days since giving birth, the opposite was the case. She could feel the strength of her body returning little by little, could tell that the soreness, the ache when she moved, lessened with each hour.

Only her mind, her thoughts, seemed an entirely different thing. They had not come to a hold once while healing from her burns.

This time around her thoughts had been forced into a dire hold the night she had been in labour, and had not yet resumed their work.

Not that she was completely inattentive of her surroundings. By far not as paralyzed as she had been that night, but the weak, scared woman she had turned into in those hours had also not entirely disappeared either.

She was bothered by things, concerned by things that she should have known better, that she _knew_ better.

That something as ordinary as childbirth broke her spirits so much was in a way astonishing. She could not imagine that this was something all women went through, otherwise men would have ceased existing at this point. And she had the luxury of being taken care of, of not having to actively care for any more than having her child fed every couple of hours; everything else was provided for her. Sansa saw to it that there was nothing that she could possibly ask for.

Nearly nothing that was - besides Sansa’s presence itself.

The night before, the day of the Dragon Queen’s arrival, Margaery had already been asleep when she’d come in, had only become aware of her presence in the middle of the night when she had woken up to feed the child. They had exchanged some muttered, sleepy words then, Sansa had held her, snuggled up to her back, when she had crawled back under the covers, at last having ridded herself off her dress, then only in her underdress.

When Margaery woke in the morning after, Sansa was already gone. Only her remaining scent in the pillows an indicator that she had not just dreamt it. And a small note on the nightstand.

_I could not bear to wake you. You looked too precious. I will be back for lunch._

_Yours, Sansa_

She’d still been holding on to the note, re-reading the delicate script, when Gilly had come to see her, only then had folded it up and slipped away.

Next to Sansa, Gilly was the one other person who had managed to wave away some of the clouds that hung over her mind so constantly now. The girl had a kindness and something so reassuring about her it wanted to draw tears to Margaery’s eyes every time they spoke.

Gilly may have not had the thorough knowledge of a maester, but she had a great knowledge about all the practical things that came with motherhood. She spent the morning showing her how to bathe the child, what to watch out for when changing his diapers, how to swaddle him.

She also seemed to have a remedy for almost all the discomforts the birth had brought along. Had some interesting techniques that were supposed that helped with the discomfort in her breast that the slowly increasing milk flow brought along, involving cabbage leaves.

For the remaining soreness she had a steaming hip bath prepared for hers that smelled so intensely of chamomile, Margaery felt the tiniest bit nauseous by it.

Sinking into it stung like hell, reminded her of that stinging pain that the myrish fire had caused when her burns had been cleaned with it after the wildfire. Unlike that, she could actually feel the soothing effect it had on her rather quickly, and so she endured it with gritted teeth, her hands held on tightly to the bundled up underdress, making sure that it did not touch the water as she leaned back and tried to relax her body as much as she could.

“How often did you feed him tonight?”

Gilly placed the boy back in the cradle as Margaery turned her head.

“Just once,” she replied. “Is that enough?”

“He seems happy with it,” Gilly said. “He will let you know if he wants more.”

“He never seems hungry, or in any discomfort really,” she hesitated for a moment. “Is that normal? For a child not to cry?”

He had not cried once. Small whimpers of discomfort were the one thing he seemed to accomplish, and those were rare enough.

“You’re lucky,” Gilly pointed out. “It gives you proper time to rest.”

She did not feel so lucky. It would offer some kind of distraction at least, Margaery thought, and forced the thought away a second later. Wishing for her child to be crying was not particularly maternal.

“He will cry soon enough, and more than you will care for.”

Gilly stepped to the end of the bed, smoothing out the blankets before sitting down on them. “Anything else I can help you with?”

Margaery gave a small grateful smile and shook her head. She had already done so much for her, she already knew that there was no way to ever pay her back for it.

“No other discomforts?”

Again Margaery shook her head. She did not think there was anything the girl could do about the ones she did still have. She did help her a lot with her ointments, herbs, the baths. But the rest… was not a physical matter that could be helped through any of that. This heaviness on her mind had so many reasons, more than she could fully explain to anyone. Things she needed to get her head around, even when she had no idea how to.

The first hours and days after giving birth where similar to recovering from the burn injuries, only this time it was not pain she needed to round up, but her emotions. Her body healed quickly it seemed, only two days after she felt relatively fine, able to be on her feet, to move around with only little remaining discomfort.

Her mind however, was an entirely different thing. All too unstable still. Easily swayed from feeling relatively fine to being devastated within the same breath.

Margaery did her best to listen into herself. Tried to figure out what would raise her mood -the truth was nothing ever really did, merely held her distracted from her for short moments- and what weighed on her -a rather long list.

There were things she handled better, things she could endure, and those that tore on her existence and everything in it.

Being alone with the child was the latter for the most part, and that felt too horrible to say out loud to anyone.  

It was somewhat endurable when she had something to do; unbearable when she just sat there watching him in his cradle, looking up at her so peacefully.

She wished he would be sleeping more. Seeing those ever so alert eyes, hurt in so many ways. When he slept she could pretend that everything was fine, that he didn’t need anything, but if he was awake, there was always that feeling that she needed to do something. Hold him, care for him, even just coo loving words at him… All those things that Sansa did so easily.

It served as a perfect reminder of how bad she was at this. The few times she had lifted him out of his cradle apart from feeding him, she had not known what to do with him, she only stared at him, carried him through the room and desperately waited to feel something. Something good, something positive.

Trying to make sure that he was physically without anything was the only thing that she had.

And yet, she never felt worse than when she was feeding him.

If she ever was supposed to feel something, she was sure it was then.

In all the ways her mind failed her still, where her thoughts seemed subdued a lot of times, the sentiments nursing the boy brought along were fairly clear.

Guilt. Shame. An ache that wrapped around her chest like a too tight corset.

Distraction from that was hard to be found. She settled on craftwork for the remains of the morning hours after Gilly had left her alone. Her knitting needles clicking as she sat by the fire, the cradle right by her side.

It bore some irony that she could not stand not having her son out her sight. That was something that came with his quietness. If the boy never cried at anything, she needed an indicator that everything was really all right.

Craftwork was a good way to keep her hands occupied all while still keeping an eye on him, she found soon. She was halfway through finishing a blanket for him she had started knitting yesterday. It was not necessary, she knew that. The trunk that held her own dresses had already a more than sufficient amount of swaddling cloths, blankets and furs. Sansa had seen to that.

That did not matter though. Part of her thought that perhaps, if she would be able to cover him with something she had made with her own hands, it would count as proof that she cared for him after all.

It was all she had and was able to give him at the moment.

Sansa found her at noon as she had promised, when she’d just finished feeding him and carried him through the room, his tiny head resting against her shoulder like Gilly had shown her, a hand patting his back.

The same soft smile that Sansa always wore lately when looking at her appeared on her face as she watched her for a short moment and Margaery returned it.

“How are my two favourite people doing?”

Sansa closed her arms around the both of them, a hand tenderly caressing the child’s head, catching a look at his nearly asleep face, before leaning in and giving Margaery a small kiss.

She sunk into Sansa’s hold, loving the comfort it offered.  

“We are doing well,” Margaery assured with a confidence in her voice that surprised herself.

Sansa’s presence helped her. Was on the top of very short list of things that lifted her mood.

Even if just sometimes. For all too short moments. But it did.

When she looked at her. When she held her. When she kissed her. When she spoke soft words of encouragement to her.

Never more than when she’d told her that she loved her.

In those short instances, Margaery understood why the question of if surviving was worth all the misery had not crossed her mind this time around; because of her, because of Sansa. Because the impact that any alternative would have had on her, the pain it would have caused her, was far worse than any misery Margaery could endure.

“You are?” Sansa probed gently, a hand brushing over Margaery’s cheek as she searched her eyes. Those ever loving and concerned blue eyes observed her carefully, looking for, and sure to find, the smallest sign of discomfort.

Smiling for anyone, pretending for anyone, would have been a huge effort for Margaery still, only for Sansa it happened relatively easily, with enough sincerity to nearly fool herself.

Margaery knew that Sansa had so much on her mind, burdening her, as it was. In the little amount of comfort she could offer her in all that she had to shoulder, putting on a smile seemed like an easy thing to do.

“Yes,” Margaery returned and let her lips quirk in a crooked smile. “Aside from the remaining disappointment to find you gone so early this morning.”

Sansa made an apologetic face and shook her head still, as she reached for her hand and gave her a soft tug, urging her to come along to her chamber, where the table had been set up with lunch already.

“It was an all too ungodly hour,” she justified her decision. “I was actually proud that I managed not to disturb your sleep.”

“Wake me tomorrow?” Margaery pleaded softly, as she sat down at the table, looking up at Sansa. “I have all day to catch up with sleep, and I see too little of you as it is.”

She regretted the words the moment she spoke them, had not meant for them to sound like an accusation, did not enjoy the guilty look that slipped into Sansa’s face as she leaned down and took the child from her.

“I am sorry I did not make it back to you earlier,” Sansa said, her eyes drawn to the small boy in her arm who had fallen asleep at last. “This afternoon I should--”

Margaery silenced her in reaching for her free hand. “Please don’t apologize.”

Making Sansa feel bad was the last thing she wanted to do, not when she did so much for her already. She brought the cool knuckles to her lips, smiling up at Sansa.

“I just meant to say that the purpose of sleeping in one bed is getting to wake up in each other’s arms. It is not fair if only you get that pleasure.”

The look of remorse lifted itself of Sansa’s features gradually and was replaced with a soft smile. “Noted.”

Her eyes went back to the child then, and Margaery detected almost curiously that seeing Sansa with her son in her arms, could be counted on both ends; it made her feel better and worse all at once.

Better, because seeing him in Sansa’s arms meant for a small moment she knew he was well taken care of and for once not entirely her responsibility. Worse, because Sansa seemed to smile at him so effortlessly, found her eyes in an attempt to share the joy she felt holding him.

It seemed like in the love that was between the two of them, she could not comprehend, not believe, perhaps not endure, that Margaery could be indifferent about such a precious little human.

And that was only fair, because Margaery did not understand it herself.

“Gilly was with you this morning?”

Margaery nodded, doing her very best to keep the soft smile on her face. She’d gotten better at pretending for Sansa. “She was. She helped me give him a bath.”

“I wish I could have been there for that,” Sansa returned, gentle eyes looking at the sleeping child. “I bet he enjoyed that.”

Unsure what to return to that, Margaery just smiled softly, let the statement stand there without a comment.

They remained like this for another short moment before Sansa put him down in the middle of her bed, sitting down across from her at last and filling two cups with steaming tea.

“How did everything go yesterday?” Margaery inquired when Sansa brought the drink to her lips. “Any more luck in building an opinion about the Dragon Queen?”

Sansa looked contemplating for a short moment. “Not really. She was perfectly pleasant and friendly, almost exhaustingly polite.”

“That does not sound like it was all that bad.” Margaery gathered both her and Sansa’s bowl in front of her and filled them with some of the steaming potato stew.

“We will see about that,” Sansa returned vaguely.

“The Lords did not care for her politeness then?” Margaery guessed pushing one bowl towards Sansa.

Sinking the spoon into her dish, she shrugged. “For now it seems like Jon is still the bigger thorn in their side. They are still so upset with him bending the knee, they have not gotten around to giving her much attention.”

Not so different than Sansa herself still, Margaery thought. “Did you get a chance to talk to your brother?”

Sansa shook her head. “He’s busy doing some damage control. Sat down with the Lords one by one together with the dragon queen for the whole morning.”

“With success?”

Sansa shrugged. “It’s too soon to tell. We still have their support for the bigger part.”

The comfortable warmth that the soup brought to Margaery’s stomach turned to a knot and she blinked. “The bigger part?”

Hesitancy came into Sansa’s posture as she lowered the spoon midway on the way to her mouth.

“Go on, please,” Margaery urged softly.

“House Glover sent a raven this morning declaring that they would not send their banners.”

She reached across the table and took Sansa’s hand into her own, giving her a comforting squeeze. She knew that this had been Sansa’s worry all along, to lose the support their reign in the North was built on, understood the insecurity that it had to bring to her.

“You are worried more houses will follow suit,” she concluded.

“We are hanging on by a thin thread,” Sansa stated. “You should have seen the way Lyanna Mormont spoke to Jon yesterday. She might be little more than a child, but a wilful one. And in her position I don’t know if I’d behave any differently. She has given her support to us before there was again a House Stark to defend. One of the first to appoint Jon as King in the North. He might as well spit in her face trying to get her to support his surrendering.”

“But she is still here,” Margaery reminded. “I can’t imagine someone with such a great sense of loyalty just abandoning her vows.”

“Let’s hope so.”

It was Sansa who held it all together, Margaery understood. It was a balance act to be mastered, but so far Sansa seemed to accomplish it. Being appropriately polite to the Queen’s support they were reliant on and at the same time doing her best to not let any token of honouring go so far that it would upset old alliances.

It was no wonder she looked so tired.

“Have some faith,” Margaery pleaded. “I think one of the main reasons Lady Mormont and all the others are still here is you. They know what you have done and accomplished for the North in those last months. How relentlessly you worked in keeping it all together.”

Sansa did not look convinced, but offered a small smile of gratitude still. “That is part of the problem,” she said, giving Margaery’s hand a squeeze, holding on. “The northern houses are giving me what the Dragon Queen so desperately craves.”

Margaery considered her words. She had drawn enough envy to herself by what other people had considered effortlessly winning affection to know where Sansa was coming from and that her concern was justified. A scorned queen was not something to take easyily. She had the scars to prove it. And in their loyalty the Southern Houses where not half as hard headed and black and white as the North.

“I wish there was some fool proof advice I could give you in this,” Margaery relented softly. “Only I am afraid it remains a balance act.”

“Having you to talk to about all this madness already helps a great deal more than you can imagine.”

It bore a good amount of irony that in a situation where Margaery felt as weak and helpless as she ever had, she still managed to give Sansa this amount of comfort.

They emptied their bowls with food all too quickly, and all too soon Sansa was on her feet again, her hands braced against the table for a moment, unwilling to go yet.

“I am dreading this afternoon,” she tilted her head back with a sigh that bore such dramatic it almost brought a smile to Margaery’s lips.

“What do you have planned?”

“It was planned for me,” Sansa corrected. “Tyrion Lannister has asked for me showing him Winterfell.”

Sansa spending time with him in particular made Margaery nervous. She trusted no one as much as she trusted her, but it did bear the chance of the conversation landing on herself or her son, even just by accident.

“He has a vast interest in all that concerns Winterfell and our preparation for winter,” Sansa explained on. “Which is a reasonable request as hand of the queen, but…”

“But, what?”

“He likes to talk… a lot.”

If Sansa was only half as exhausted as Margaery still felt, she had her greatest sympathies for going through that. Likewise she was aware that Sansa enjoyed going through her duties undisturbed and without distractions.

Still she gave a small chuckle. “You make it sound like you did not know that.”

“I feel he used to be lighter in the tone of his conversation,” Sansa said. “I think he has given up drinking during the day.”

“Poor darling,” Margaery said, with a tiny smile and a shake of her head. “I pity you, of all his bad habits, he has to drop the one that makes him entertaining.”

She held her hand out for Sansa to take; it only took a small instant and their fingers were interlaced, Sansa standing right before her.

“Thank you for your compassion,” Sansa said. “And for your company.”

“I am glad to offer at least that,” Margaery returned a bit more seriously than their tone had just been. “I just wish there was more I could do.”

As she spoke the words she saw something appear in Sansa’s face for a split second, something she concealed behind a smile and gentle words.

“Knowing I have you to return to at night is already everything.”

Only it wasn’t.

Sansa wanted more than just having her to return to for fleeing moments of distraction. She wanted her by her side in all of this, Margaery could clearly sense that, had seen the consideration of asking that of her flash over her face.

The all too familiar shameful sense of guilt settled in Margaery’s stomach over the relief she felt that Sansa had not asked the question.

She did not know if she felt worse for Sansa or herself in this inability to show strength when and where it mattered the most.

A month ago, no power in the world would have stopped her from greeting the Dragon Queen and everyone she had brought along with her head held high, with her pregnant stomach strutting out proudly. She had been in dire anticipation then too, of how Daenerys Targaryen would react to her, but she would have not hesitated a heartbeat in overcoming any concerns or reluctance for the sake of Sansa.

Lips that softly pressed against her own managed to break the all too dire train of thought, let her sink into the warmth and tenderness of Sansa’s touch, where almost all negativity seemed to disappear for a short moment.

“Don’t go there,” Sansa pleaded then, her fingers skimming over Margaery’s cheek, her eyes urgingly on her own. “Whatever just was on your mind, don’t.”

Margaery smiled weakly and once Sansa had straightened her posture, circled her arms around her waist, pressing her face into the warmth of her stomach, feeling only a little better with the words.

“Maybe I need to,” she said. Maybe knowing that Sansa needed her would finally be enough to shake her from this godforsaken weakness. “I want to be there for you.”

Hands brushed over her head, one of them settling at the nape of her neck, fingertips caressing the skin at the top of her dress.

“I do too,” she admitted. “But when you do, when you meet the Dragon Queen and all of her travelling circus, it should be because you are ready. Not because you feel you owe me something.”

She did not deserve the wonderfulness that was Sansa Stark.

“I do though,” she said quietly.

She owed her this and so much more.

“What if I told you that hiding you out here is not for your sake solely?” Sansa’s caresses became even a bit gentler as she spoke.

“Don’t patronize me,” Margaery pleaded.

Fingers left her neck, took a hold of her chin and tilted her head up, letting her see gentle blue eyes. “I’m not. Part of me wishes I could hide you out here forever, so I’d only have you to myself.”

Margaery smiled a little at the thought. Wouldn’t that be grand? Just the two of them, locked up in these chambers forever? Able to hide from all the complications of the world and just focus on each other.

“And the other part?”

“Wants to have you by my side every hour of every day,” Sansa admitted. “But that is just surroundings. And those do not matter as long as we have each other.”

“Nicely put,” Margaery smiled, her tone not fully convinced still.

How long would that last, if she did not manage to pull herself from this state?

Sansa loved her, yes, but she was not the same person that Sansa had fallen in love with. When she had said the words, she was not the one she said the words to. She loved who she’d known before and sometimes it felt that person was lost forever.

A knock on the door pulled her from these musings and look towards it anxiously for a moment.

The familiarity of the voice coming from the other side of the door, let her release a breath of relief. “It’s Brienne, milady.”

“Just a moment,” Sansa called back without missing a beat.

She drew back then, capturing the hands that were still around her waist in her own, looking at Margaery with soft concern. “She told me this morning that she wanted to pay you a visit,” she explained, her thumb brushing over knuckles. “I can send her away if you do not feel up to it.”

Margaery only considered it for a short moment before shaking her head. Some distraction would do her good, would perhaps safe her from falling into the pit that Sansa’s absence always left her with.

“I’d like to see her.”

“Are you sure?”

This time she nodded more firmly, stood up as she did so. “Give me just a moment to get settled in my chamber, then send her in.”

Sansa looked glad at her hesitant determination, only a moment later gave a soft chiding look. “This is your chamber too, you know?” She tucked a strand of hair behind Margaery’s ear and smiled.

Margaery gave a shake of her head in return. “It’s not very prudent,” she objected. “The maids--”

Sansa’s lips that pressed to hers interrupted her.

“I don’t care,” she insisted. “I love you, and I want you here.” Her hands landed on Margaery’s shoulder then pushing her back down into the chair. Soft fingers danced about the side of Margaery’s face and a shyer quality came to her features. “And while we are on the subject, if we are talking about sharing the same bed, and waking up together, I’d like that to happen in this one.”

Margaery would have needed to tell her that it was indiscreet behaviour, but did not have it in her. Not with the good amount of insistence and elation that Sansa looked at her with. She’d find a way to follow her wishes without appearing all too careless, she settled on.

Making good of her point, Sansa rolled the cradle into her chamber as well, placing it next to Margaery, within her reach and carefully placed the sleeping boy in it. For a moment she looked down at him for a smile.

“If you cannot see the advantages for yourself, or for me, consider it the best for him,” Sansa reminded. “This room is a great deal warmer than the other one.”

With one last kiss to Margaery’s lips she then at last turned around and opened the door for Brienne to enter.

Brienne greeted after the door was closed and looked politely between the two of them, her hands folded behind her back, before her eyes settled on Margaery. “Lady Sansa implied that you might be content to have me stop by. I hope I am not imposing.”

“You’re not. Of course not.”

“You are actually just in time in to offer to keep Margaery some company in my stead,” Sansa explained. “I need to be going.” She met Margaery’s eyes then. “I will see you later.”

A certain cold that came with Sansa leaving had Margaery pull her shawl tighter. Brienne’s presence however had the effect she had hoped, it was not quite as bad as usually.

“Welcome back,” she said, after a moment of looking at Brienne in silence. “It’s good to see you returned safely.”

It was more than just a phrase. Even just having her standing there, emitted a certain security to Margaery. Knowing that Brienne was around, that she kept an eye on Sansa, gave Margaery a small sense of comfort. Like there was at least one thing she would not have to worry about.

“It is good to find things here so stable. Much more safe then when I left.” She emitted something like gratefulness just then. “I knew you would look after her.”

It seemed like she had learned of Lord Baelish’s imprisonment, but they had failed to fill her in on the exact circumstances. Just how little she of all people had had actively to do with it.

Margaery would not be the one to fill her in on that, settled on a simple truth instead. “I tried.”

Brienne was still smiling, taking a step closer. “And I see that congratulations are in order.”

Her eyes went to the cradle and Margaery followed them, the ache in her chest ever so gradually returning.

She had not received congratulations so far.

Yes, supposedly, the birth of a healthy baby boy, was a reason for joyous celebration. She felt sorry for her son that he had been denied this along with so much else.

Tentatively Brienne took a step closer and peered at the child, her smile widening, her eyes soft.

“He is most precious. Sincerely, Lady Margaery, congratulations.”

“Thank you, Brienne.” Her smile was tight, felt like a grimace to her, left her hoping that it did not resemble that too much, or if it did, that Brienne did not notice. That Sansa had to witness her failure at showing motherly affection was bad enough. It was not a fact she wanted to become general knowledge.

“Does he have a name?”

Margaery swallowed, but kept that rigid smile in place. “Not yet, no,” her eyes went to him.  

Little Lord Tyrell.

That was what Sansa called him; Margaery adored the fact that Sansa had come up with a nickname for him and could not endure it at the same time. Thought perhaps it was born out of compassion, because she could not find it in herself to refer to him as “the boy”.

The inability to yet come up with a name was one of the major things she felt she failed him. A name was something so basic, and yet something so defining; yet, or perhaps because of that, she could not get her mind to think of one.

As if it would make him a real person, a real human, that she could not love.

“Something that should be well considered I assume,” Brienne gave back gently. “Hasty judgements there can stick with one for life. Once I met a poor fellow named Centyre. Some time for consideration from the parents would have spared him people making fun of him.”

“Yes, that is what I try to avoid,” Margaery lied rather smoothly.

When she looked up again, she was surprised to find Brienne still smiling down at her son, seeming appropriately enchanted, only after a long moment straightened her back and brought herself to look back at her.

“How are you, milady? Weathered everything good I hope?”

“Fairly, yes,” she hesitated before continuing, her hand landing on the cradle then. “And what about you? How was everything in King’s Landing?”

“About as expected,” Brienne offered her, the smile vanishing with the words, replaced by a more serious expression. “With a slightly better result than expected.”

“I’d call it a lot better if Cersei has agreed to send her troops,” Margaery remarked and gestured at the empty chair for Brienne to sit down.

As she took a seat she looked thoughtful, making Margaery wonder what exactly she had meant with that all too vague statement, and at the same time not finding it in herself to ask.

“You travelled back with Jon Snow and the Dragon Queen?”

Brienne nodded. “I did, yes.”

“Can you tell me about her?” she pleaded. “What do you think of her?”

She had not gotten more than very vague held back statements from Sansa still, and she wished for more than that. Needed more than that if she ever wanted to be gather the courage to finally meet her.

Brienne hesitated then. “I don’t think it is befitted for me to have an opinion.”

It was in her nature to give that kind of answer. Margaery did not know what she had expected. She did not even think it was a sense of loyalty that triggered the words, intelligence rather. Brienne understood that keeping your opinion to yourself was the sensible thing to do.

Margaery didn’t probe, just looked quietly expectant, and sincerely surprised when it caused Brienne to continue at last.

“I have not spent a great amount of time around her. Only ever saw her, heard her speak at the meeting with Cersei.”

“So you had a direct comparison.”

“To assess what?” Brienne wondered.

“If she will be a worthy queen,” Margaery probed. “One more worthy than Cersei.”

A slight frown appeared on Brienne’s face. “With all due respect, you of all people should know that this is not a very high bar to meet.”

Margaery chuckled a little, because it was just about the most judgemental thing she ever heard from Brienne, to a sense, more than she thought her capable of.

“Fair enough,” she said. “But do you think she will be a better ruler?”

Brienne sighed. “I honestly cannot determine that. Have not seen enough of her to. A lot of people seem to think she could be.” She considered her next words carefully. “Maybe she really could. I think she wants to be.” Brienne avoided her eyes for a moment, seeming to debate with herself whether or not to reveal more. “They showed the wight to Cersei, and it is without doubt that it terrified her, and yet, she needed conditions, needed to be convinced in order to give her support, to agree to unite forces. I honestly cannot make any precise statements about Daenerys Targaryen. But she is here. Ready to fight a war she would not need to fight. Given this, it is not hard to see the more sensible person out of the two of them. The one with the better comprehension for the greater meaning of things.”

Margaery listened to the words and considered them carefully. It did not take much to seem more reasonable, more sensible than Cersei; that did not mean much, and Brienne understood that too.

But caught between a rock and a hard place, you choose the one that at least appeared less hurtful.

Before her next question, Margaery hesitated, her hand tightening around the edge of the cradle. “So you’ve seen it, the dead one?”

Sansa had told her about the threat beyond the wall, the day after she arrived in Winterfell, and yet, even today, part of Margaery, the sober, pragmatic part still had trouble believing the claim of dead soldiers that were a supposed threat north of the wall; but if the massive army of Daenerys Targaryen that was lined outside of Winterfell, the two dragons she had brought North for this purpose were any indicator, she believed the threat, so who was Margaery to doubt it.

Brienne’s expression withdrew even more, closed off, darkened, maybe because of the memory, maybe because she did not wish to worry a still all too weak, young mother.

“Brienne,” she put soft insistence in her voice. For this she needed an answer.

“I did,” came the confirmation at last.

“So they are real.”

“Yes.” With her eyes drifting to the flames of the chimney, Brienne leaned back a little. “If the army of them is as big as they say, then there is no time for considering if Daenerys Targaryen is better or worse than Cersei. We need her.”

Margaery appreciated the honesty, knowing that from Brienne it was as unbiased as it would ever be.

The answer did leave her anxious of course, not so much for herself; her eyes went to the cradle, where her son slept perfectly peaceful.

How would _she_ ever be able to protect him from something that frightened something as brave and strong as Brienne?

She couldn’t.

The thought came with a sense of detachment that was almost comforting.

“Have you told that to Sansa?”

A shake of her head. “No.”

“You should.”

Brienne sat up a little straighter, looking back at her. “That is not my place.”

“I think it is, “Margaery disagreed. “You swore to protect her.”

She did not have it in her to explain it, and gladly saw in Brienne’s eyes that she did not need to. When Brienne had left for King’s Landing, she had asked Margaery to watch after her, something that Margaery had not accomplished. Still, she needed the favour returned now. She needed more than Brienne’s sword protecting her. Sansa needed a wise council, all the necessary information, more than she needed blades protecting her.

Sansa was reluctant about the Dragon Queen. In light of what Brienne had just told her way too cautious and too hesitant.

With the nod, the silent agreement that she would do what was asked of her, Margaery let herself sink back further into her chair, pulling the shawl tightly around herself. The small accomplishment under her belt, Margaery felt a tiredness overcome her that had her just about ready to drop back into bed. Something that was not lost on Brienne, who soon enough excused herself.

In her former life Margaery had been constantly surrounded by people, had thrived off social interaction, talking, laughing, picking other people’s minds. That had not changed once she’d come to Winterfell, only by default then because the amount of people available for interaction had become limited.

Now, in a day where she had barely more than an hour altogether of having people around, her she found that it left her with a bit of exhaustion. Had her genuinely weary of it.

She sunk down onto Sansa’s bed, not forgetting her previous reservations, but doing so still because the need to feel close to her weighed stronger than any common sense.

It was not more than imagination, but when she woke up she did feel more rested than any other time. What certainly helped bring this feeling along was Sansa next to her playing with tiny hands of the child she had lying belly down on her chest, smiling softly.

Margaery blinked sleep from her eyes and tried to gather what was going on; it was still light outside, so Sansa was back a lot earlier than she’d expected.

“You are back early,” Margaery said, rubbing a hand over her eyes.

Sansa’s eyes darted to her, shifting a bit, a securing hand at the boys back as she turned her head to her.

“I excused myself with a headache for tonight.”

Despite the smile that bloomed on her face, Margaery chided softly. “You shouldn’t have.”

“They are talking strategic warfare,” Sansa said. “Nothing where I could be much help anyway.”

“Important information though, perhaps,” Margaery pointed out.

“Nothing I have not heard before,” Sansa assured. “Or I will be able to worry about tomorrow.”

“There is reason for worry?” Margaery folded her arm under her head, studying the reaction to her words carefully in Sansa’s face, saw the hesitancy and concern.

Sansa sighed, looking at the ceiling for a long moment only looked at Margaery again when she placed her hand over her own on the boys back, serving as a reminder for the reasons why she deserved to know.

“They are talking about taking the troops up to the wall for the war against the dead.”

“Battles led from there seem reasonable,” Margaery said finally. After what Brienne had told her, the further away from them and from Winterfell the better.

“On that I agree,” Sansa stated. “It is the amount of men Jon wants to take with him there. The majority of our men.”

It took Margaery a short moment to understand what she implied, if all the troops went North, Winterfell would be fairly unprotected, from any threat, dangers that came from somewhere else, from the South.

It required a great amount of faith in the truce they held with Cersei.

“You are worried because of Cersei,” she gathered quietly, and felt the words close up her own throat, because the worry was all too justified.

“Jon is an honest man, that is his greatest quality and weakness at the same time,” Sansa ran a hand over the babe’s head, pressed a kiss to it and breathed in for a moment as it calmed her. “Because I think he assumes that everyone will stick to their word as he would.”

“They found a way to make her agree to a parley, a truce… any of that is hard to believe knowing Cersei,” Margaery weighed carefully. “You said your brother told you they convinced her by showing her one of the dead, maybe that was indeed enough to convince her. Survival seems to be her prime instinct.”

“Exactly,” Sansa said darkly. “And if I know her at all, her survival does not include fighting wars that are not her own.”

Margaery tried to put herself in Cersei’s mindset, something she had done so many times throughout the last years it was not particularly hard anymore. Cersei was someone who weighed chances and possibilities. Her main goal would be to hold her power in the South over the Dragon Queen. Sacrificing her own men in a war this far North did not fit into that picture. Doing something for the greater good was not something she would ever honestly consider.

The options for Cersei here were fairly simple. Join the war in the north and lose many of her men, leaving her weakened for any attack from Daenerys afterwards.

If she sat out the war, that left her to see Jon and Daenerys succeeding, but having weakened forces, while she remained at full strength; or them losing, what gave her time to plan out her own defence; also remaining at full strength.

It did not take a genius, or knowing her particularly well to figure out what Cersei would do.

“She’s not sending troops,” Margaery conclude out loud.

In light of the threat the realm was facing it frightened her, in light of her own small world, not having Jamie Lannister appear in Winterfell relieved her more than she could express.

“At least not to support us,” Sansa said.

“You don’t think she is daring enough to attack Winterfell?”

Sansa remained quiet, avoiding her eyes. “I hope not,” she said at last.

But she also would not put it behind her. A strike like that was Cersei’s style for certain.

“Have you voiced these concerns to your brother?” Margaery wanted to know. “For sure he would never do anything to endanger you.”

“Jon ...“ Sansa sighed. “He sees nothing as great as the war he has to fight North. His mind is so focused on what happens if he loses that war, he has not considered what will happen if he succeeds at it.”

Wanting to give Sansa a bit of comfort Margaery snuggled up to her side, placing one arm protectively over both her and her son, resting her head on Sansa’s shoulder.

“You should tell him still,” she said. “If you already think he won’t listen to you, what bad could come from trying?”

Sansa did not respond anything to it, letting Margaery hope that she contemplated her words rather than choosing to discount them. The soft stirring of the child saved her from having to give an answer. It let Sansa sit up and hold him in the crook of her arm, watching with a smile as his small head turned towards her chest, his lips opening, and a small whimper filling the silence when he did not find what he was looking for.

Sansa smiled and let the boy suckle on her bent pinky to calm him momentarily.

“I think this demands your skill.”

Margaery watched the soft gesture and was equally overwhelmed by affection for Sansa and envy of how easy this seemed to come to her.

“I don’t know if skill is the right term,” Margaery returned and pushed herself up.

She had sat back against the headboard, a pillow on her lap as she drew on the strings holding the neckline of her dress together.

“Your talent?” Sansa suggested with a smile as she placed the boy in Margaery’s arms.

“Ability, at best,” Margaery gave back as she pulled back her dress far enough to let the child latch to her breast. “You would not call a cow giving milk a talent.”

Margaery knew her words were more deprecating than appropriate and did not dare to look up from the boy, did not need to see disappointment in Sansa’s eyes over her inability to behave motherly. Her eyes focused on her son, Sansa suddenly appearing in her personal space pressing a kiss against her lips, staying close and brushing soft fingers over her cheek, caught her by surprise.

“I think I’ll stick to talent,” she stated. “Given that compared to a dairy cow, you are a whole lot prettier.”

The way she said it had Margaery forget for that short moment all about doubts and worries; with the way she looked at her, she felt pretty. Instead of words of gratitude, she kissed her, smiling against soft lips and enjoyed how unflawed she felt just for that small instance.

Sansa placed an arm around her, pulling her into her side and Margaery sunk into the touch, her head landing on Sansa’s shoulder.

For a second, Margaery closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth and the security her embrace offered.

It was one of those rare moments, when -all too briefly- surviving became worth it to herself, and not just for the sake of Sansa, but for herself, for all the things and small instance with Sansa she would have missed out on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point a major shout-out to all you lovely readers out there - I still cannot believe that I have hit over 1000 Kudos with this story. It is incredible, really!  
> Thank you for reading, thank your commenting, thank you for subscribing, thank you for letting me know a thousand times over that this story is read and appreciated! You guys are awesome!


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